“How?” Milán asked.
“I’ve arranged a meeting with local journalists. They’ll be here in ten minutes. I spoke to the investigating judge, and she’s given her blessing.”
We were soon joined by Lutxo, a female reporter who was friends with Alba, and several digital-media journalists.
They looked at us expectantly. Alba welcomed them and I took the floor.
“As DSU Salvatierra has already explained, we need your cooperation. We have developed a multistep plan that hinges on the fact that the killer is following the case. He will read everything you write. So, let’s begin with the Nájera sisters.”
“What do you want us to publish?”
“These photographs, which their parents have provided,” I replied as a series of images flashed across the projector: Oihana aged three playing near Ullíbarri-Gamboa Reservoir, Estefanía at Las Fiestas de la Virgen Blanca, dressed in a neska costume. I had also asked for cute snapshots from their most recent birthdays. Their parents had sent one photo of a little girl blowing out twelve candles, and another of a teenager doing the same thing with sixteen candles. The message wasn’t exactly subtle: Because of you, they won’t be blowing out any more candles.
“Why them? Why not the industrialist or the kid in the barrel?” asked Lutxo.
“Because whoever killed these girls felt remorse,” I replied. “He put bags over their heads while he was trapping them behind the wall so he couldn’t see their faces. He felt bad about what he was doing. We’re going to play on that guilt. The industrialist was a random victim. It was a cowardly murder, carried out from a distance by someone who didn’t want to see his victim suffer and die. Although we know he didn’t want to see the result of his actions, we don’t know if he felt guilt or remorse. The same is true of the victim drowned in the barrel.”
There was another reason I didn’t want to give them any details about MatuSalem. Maturana had spent time in prison for defrauding dozens of people online. He was the protégé of Tasio Ortiz de Zárate, and the two of them had kept in touch—they were in contact the day before he died. I didn’t want the public to judge MatuSalem because of his past. I wanted to do what I’d failed to when he was alive: protect him.
“Anything else you want us to run with?” a young journalist asked.
I handed each of them a folder.
“These packets contain some information about the girls’ hobbies. Estefanía was studying music and wanted to be a cellist like her mother. This summer, she was going on a trip to Scotland with her cuadrilla. Oihana liked to develop computer apps. According to her teachers, she was a gifted child who excelled at robotics and had a bright future. This is what you have to tell the public. The public needs to get a sense of the dreams these girls had that will never come true, the tragedy of two promising young lives cut short. We want to touch a nerve with the killer, so show the parents, grandparents, teachers, and friends grieving at the funeral. Try to use images that show people of different ages so the public sees the scope of the tragedy. All the images you need are in the file. Share your stories, overlap them if possible. We want to manipulate the killer’s emotions, show him the pain that has resulted from the loss of these two lives. We want to use the press to reflect his guilt back at him, so that it becomes a daily reminder of his actions. Make it impossible for him to forget.”
“Can you collaborate to ensure that an article comes out every day next week?” Alba said. “It’s essential to keep up the pressure so we can track the killer’s responses.”
“And you’re sure it will have the desired effect?”
It already has, I thought. Ask Estíbaliz.
“We are indeed,” replied Alba. “Thank you in advance for your cooperation. If everything goes according to plan, we’ll meet again in a few days and move on to phase two.”
* * *
—
I’d started driving to Ugarte every Wednesday and Thursday for book club.
From where I was standing on the sidewalk, I could see that the bar was filling up. Several cars were parked outside, and it looked like each week more locals—of all ages—were joining. I walked in and said hello to everyone. I noticed a lot of expectant faces and oblique glances at the newspaper I had tucked under my arm. A week had passed, and the journalists were doing a great job with their coverage.
We were now in phase two of the plan Alba and I had developed over several nights, the reports spread out on our bed. We had vowed never to let the monsters we faced at work invade our sacred space. Unfortunately, we were losing that battle every day.
But our efforts had paid off. The headline that morning provoked an avalanche of retweets.
New Twist in Case of Boy Drowned in Zadorra
A witness has come forward with a detailed description of the killer. Police sources have announced that an arrest is imminent.
A few days earlier, Peña and Milán had visited Ugarte, taking statements from the villagers and asking for alibis for the three days the crimes had taken place. They had also requested voluntary DNA samples. Not everyone had agreed to provide one.
I sat down between Benita and Fausti. The old lady introduced me to some of the new members: Cándido, who always beat everyone at bowling, and Juani, who worked for the town council. Fausti’s husband, Fidel, stood by the door with his arms crossed, as though he wanted a good view of everything that was going on. Even Claudia, the willowy tour guide from the tower, was there. According to Benita, Claudia’s sister, Irati, ran the agritourism business at the Forge, where she also had a glassworks. Physically, the sisters couldn’t have been more different: one was tall, the other short, one’s hair was straight and dark, the other’s curly and blond. For some reason, Irati looked familiar. Benita’s relentless introductions of the inhabitants of Ugarte had been going on for quite a while, but there were more to come.
“The one in the glasses is the legal eagle, Beltrán,” Benita told me.
The young, impeccably dressed man with a waspish face was greeting late arrivals.
“He looks pretty young,” I said.
“He is; he only just graduated. Ramiro Alvar lets him take care of some minor affairs.”
“Yes, I think he’s already mentioned him to me,” I whispered with a nod.
“Let’s start the reading now, shall we?” Fausti interrupted. The dawdlers took their seats, and a contented Gonzalo brought people drinks.
This week, the reader was an older resident with a husky voice. Half an hour later, our discussion revolved around whether Gunnarr had taken henbane during the siege.
“Isn’t the description of its effect a bit exaggerated?” asked Cándido.
“It’s fascinating to read an account written in 1192 that refers to drug-induced behaviors we now know to be accurate,” I responded. I wanted to remind everyone that I wasn’t just there as a reader. I wanted them all to remember I was a police inspector, and I wanted to see their reaction to that revelation. “It appears the character Gunnarr Kolbrunson was formerly a berserker, a mercenary hired by Norse kings. Henbane, the powder Gunnarr is known to ingest before battle, caused hallucinations, followed by amnesia and intense dehydration that occasionally resulted in death,” I explained, recalling my time at the police academy. “Gunnarr would have been familiar with the properties of henbane, which made men feel invincible and transformed them into shock troops on the battlefield. I believe this is a reference to the so-called amok syndrome. In my profession, we are trained to deal with the possible repercussions of this type of disorder: an alienated individual kills innocent people in a frenzied attack, and then usually goes on to take their own life. Unfortunately, we’ve seen a rise in these cases recently.”
Everyone was staring at me. The bar was silent. I might have gotten carried away by the subject matter, but I was working a case at a book club, after all. I felt an almost-pleas
urable buzz.
“You’d make a good teacher,” Benita whispered in my ear, smiling cheerfully.
“Thanks.”
Shortly afterward, people got up to stretch their legs. They divided into small groups based on age and interests. Claudia and her sister came over to say hello.
“How are you, Inspector? You’re spending more and more time here in Ugarte.”
“It’s a charming village. I like it a lot.”
“Then you should visit Irati’s glassworks studio at the Old Forge.”
“I’d love to. I can pick up a souvenir,” I responded swiftly.
I actually wanted to soak up the atmosphere of the place that had destroyed Ramiro Alvar and sealed the fate of his family.
“In that case, Inspector, follow me. I’m heading back there now,” said Irati with a smile.
We set off along a path that ran parallel to the river and wound toward the outskirts of the village, ending at the tower’s perimeter a few hundred yards ahead.
Irati was a friendly young woman, easier to talk to than her sister. She told me it was harder to find clients for her agritourism in the winter.
“I have a friend in the hotel business,” I said. “I know it can be tough, though I get the impression that being your own boss and not having to work nine to five has its advantages.”
“The glassworks saved me. My brand is slowly making a name for itself, through word of mouth.”
“I’m glad to hear that. So, this used to be the Nograro family forge.”
“The whole place has been renovated,” she said, as we entered the stone structure. “We have several rooms, and we’re completely free this weekend. Come into the studio and see if there’s something that interests you.”
The group of locals coming up behind us was taking an opportunity to go for a stroll and purchase a set of blue steins or whatever other glass creation caught their fancy.
I was about to leave with a collection of decorative bottles for Alba when Peña called.
“Kraken—”
“Unai,” I interrupted. “Please, call me Unai.”
“We just got a report from the lab that upends all our assumptions from the past couple of weeks. Are you sitting down?”
“No, I’m not,” I said, as another customer pushed open the door. “Just tell me what it is.”
“The DNA on the pencil we found at the scene of MatuSalem’s murder matches Ramiro Alvar Nograro’s.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“Ramiro?” I echoed. “Are you sure?”
“I’m afraid so. Doctor Guevara says the result is unequivocal.”
Numb with shock, I propped myself against the wall of the forge. This news threw everything I had come to believe into question, everything Ramiro had told me about what had happened at the forge. Had he made it up? Was it an act? Was Ramiro our killer, or did he really have dissociative identity disorder, and the murderer was actually his alter, Alvar? Who was I dealing with here: a charlatan, a snake charmer, or a psychopath with an integrated personality and a brilliant compensatory façade?
I forced myself to respond decisively.
“Fortunately, he’s still at the hospital. How long before we can obtain an arrest warrant?”
“The judge will take a lot of persuading. This isn’t the lead we’ve been pursuing, and she won’t be happy,” said Peña, “but hopefully we can get one within a couple of hours.”
Customers were still going in and out of the glassworks. Reeling from the news, I hung up and turned around without looking. I bumped into a burly young man with a thick reddish-brown beard.
“Sorry,” he said. He had a serious face and seemed distracted. He wasn’t even looking at me.
He seemed vaguely familiar, so by force of habit, I followed him with my eyes. It turned out he was just Irati’s boyfriend.
“There you are, Sebas,” she said affectionately.
How useless. All that information we had accumulated, all those names and faces. I realized the reason I was still in observation mode, registering and cataloging everything in front of me was so I wouldn’t to have to think about the truth. Damn it, Ramiro Alvar had murdered MatuSalem—and he’d come close to killing my colleague…after sleeping with her.
He was a monster.
How was I going to tell Estíbaliz that Ramiro Alvar had duped us all?
46
PARLEY
DIAGO VELA
Summer, the Year of Our Lord 1199
The next day, Chipia came to tell me that the king had called for a parley and was waiting outside the town gates.
The lieutenant, the mayor, the members of the council, and all the nobles climbed to the battlements. We wore helmets and breastplates. After the recent attack, no one felt safe.
“King Alfonso is here to list the terms of surrender!” exclaimed López de Haro. “Lieutenant Chipia, you have the right to surrender the town without dishonor. You should not fight to the death for a king who will not come to your aid. Admit it, if his troops haven’t arrived by now, they are not coming.”
“Is that why you’ve built a rear guard? You know as well as I do that they are on their way,” retorted Chipia with a smile.
“My messengers bring news of victories in every town we aimed to reconquer. And almost every fort from here to La Puebla de Arganzón has surrendered, with varying degrees of resistance. Give up now, the traders are eager to continue selling their goods in the town. Open your gates so the people can go about their business,” declared King Alfonso.
“I believe the forts of Treviño and Portilla are holding out. I know their lieutenants,” ventured Chipia.
The king and his standard-bearer stirred uneasily.
Nagorno drew closer to Chipia and the mayor.
“They won’t attack again. They don’t want to kill the inhabitants, raze the town, and then have to rebuild it. They want Victoria to serve as a crossroads: the only stopping place from Castile, the gateway to Cantabria and Aquitaine.”
“Perhaps we ought to surrender while we still have something to negotiate with,” suggested Onneca. The Isunzas agreed with her. “If they break through the walls, they’ll slaughter us all and repopulate the town. The residents of Nova Victoria are in favor of surrender,” she continued.
“And those from Villa de Suso prefer to wait for reinforcements from Pamplona,” said the mayor.
“I follow the orders of King Sancho, whose last words were ‘Victoria will not surrender,’ ” insisted the lieutenant. “His forces may have been called to other besieged fortresses or to San Sebastian. They are relying on us to hold out.”
“Chipia, I want this to end more than anybody. I want to leave the gates and look for my son,” I said. “But why the delay?”
“I’m beginning to think that King Sancho signed a treaty with the Almohads and will come here from the south himself. By my estimation, they will arrive in a month; in the meantime, we must refuse to surrender. If bad weather comes, it will be to our advantage. They can hunt and fish, but their tents won’t keep out the rain and snow, and they’ll be vulnerable to cold and disease. They don’t want a prolonged siege.”
“They’ll soon bring replacements!” Nagorno snapped. “This is Castile you’re talking about. Do you really think their army is only three thousand strong?”
We turned together and looked at the troops deployed below. King Alfonso was growing restless, steering his horse in circles.
“What do you have to say? I don’t have all day.”
“There’ll be no surrender!” cried Chipia.
The king leaned close to his standard-bearer and whispered something in his ear.
Nagorno and I exchanged nervous glances.
We stood motionless, waiting for the king’s next command. Chipia gave the
signal for the archers to mount the turrets. They drew back their bowstrings ready to fire.
But then, as we looked out despondently, the army fanned out until it had surrounded the entire town. They unloaded canvases from their carts and set about erecting more tents. In another area of the camp, we saw cooking pots and watched men mount trivets. Many of those standing with us who lived in the cutlers’ district outside the walls looked on helplessly as the soldiers entered their dwellings, installing themselves in what had been their homes for years.
My brother and I remained on the battlement after the others had descended the stairs. They were crestfallen, muttering about calamities and ill omens.
“You got what you wanted, Brother,” he whispered. “An all-out siege. Pray to your gods that the people of Victoria don’t end up like the Numantians, cannibalizing each other.”
47
THE CHAMELEON
UNAI
October 2019
By the time I arrived at the hospital, I was out of breath. I wanted to be the one to arrest him. I wanted to look him in the eye and see the real Ramiro Alvar. But when I opened the door to his room, I found a neatly made bed and a book lying open on the visitor’s chair.
“He got away! I want officers at every exit!” I ordered Peña.
“Let’s go to Estíbaliz’s room,” my colleague whispered nervously.
We hurtled down the hallway and burst into her room.
“Estí!” I cried. “Are you okay?”
“They discharged me. I’m leaving,” she said, trying to use her one good arm to pack her sneakers and toiletries. “But I have to come back for physical therapy.”
“Did Ramiro Alvar come here?” I asked.
“No, of course not. What’s the matter? Didn’t you arrest him?” she said, puzzled.
“He’s not in his room. I’m afraid he’s one step ahead of us,” I replied. “Peña, I’m putting you in charge. I’ll stay here with Estíbaliz.”
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