“You four conspired to have Ramiro Alvar arrested in order to avoid suspicion, because none of you has an alibi for all three murders. That’s why you all agreed to give voluntary DNA samples. Irati, you have an alibi for the murder of Samuel Maturana, and another very clever one for the murder at Villa Suso, even though you were there disguised as a nun. Since you were already selling your glassware at a stall on the Plaza de Matxete as part of the medieval market, it was easy to slip into the nun’s habit and run past me. You wanted to divert our attention from what had happened a few hours earlier: a meeting of entrepreneurs where Beltrán laced Lasaga’s canapé with cantharides. You must have known your name would come up sooner or later, or that someone would place you at that meeting. Was Antón Lasaga a random victim or did you target him?”
“No comment,” Beltrán replied.
I was expecting that. He was the strongest link in the chain.
“Sebas, you and Irati don’t have an alibi for the hours around Estefanía and Oihana Nájera’s disappearances. Irati knew Estefanía, and you and Samuel Maturana’s girlfriend are in the same cuadrilla. We have photos of you consoling her at his funeral. You, Gonzalo, murdered Samuel Maturana, and you don’t have an alibi for that day. So, when the newspapers mentioned that a witness had come forward with a description of the killer, you were quick to provide us with a DNA sample. You wanted to make sure we’d rule you out in case you fit the description.”
“I didn’t kill the kid in the Zadorra,” Gonzalo replied calmly. “You and I both know the DNA you found doesn’t match mine.”
His composure and self-assurance seemed incongruous with the display of pent-up anger we had seen a few minutes earlier.
“No,” I replied, “and you know that the DNA in that blood sample belongs to your uncle, Ramiro Alvar.”
“Exactly.”
“The DNA places Ramiro Alvar at the scene, and you were counting on that. The evidence is misleading, however—the blood was yours even though it contained your uncle’s DNA. That’s why you gave us a saliva sample. You’re a chimera. After receiving the bone-marrow transplant, you developed a condition known as post-transplant hematopoietic chimerism. You never told your uncle about the condition.”
“What?” asked a bewildered Ramiro Alvar.
“Gonzalo’s blood contains two different types of DNA,” I explained. “His and yours. To monitor his condition, his doctors have been testing his DNA sequence polymorphisms, or variations, regularly since the transplant. Gonzalo gave us a saliva sample, because he knew it wouldn’t match the blood DNA found on Maturana’s pencil. He also knew that the blood DNA on the pencil would match his uncle Ramiro Alvar, making him the obvious suspect. You felt untouchable up until right now, Gonzalo, that’s why you flaunted that chimera T-shirt all over the village, right under my nose. Handcuff him.”
Milán placed herself squarely in front of Gonzalo, her face like thunder. Gonzalo stared at her defiantly but held out his wrists.
“Why would you do this?” Ramiro Alvar cried. “Irati, I helped you set up a business. Beltrán, I gave you legal work, valuable experience that would look good on your résumé.”
“You still haven’t figured it out, have you?” I said. “They grew up thinking you were their uncle. Ugarte was full of rumors about Alvar’s children. Beltrán, I’ll bet you became a lawyer and went to work for Ramiro Alvar to gain access to documents about the family inheritance. Irati and Sebas, your situation is more tragic. When you started dating, your mothers were afraid you might be half siblings, and they turned their backs on you, didn’t they?”
My chat with Benita at our last book club meeting had been extremely informative.
“Irati, Sebas, and Beltrán had grown up suspecting they were Alvar Nograro’s bastards. Their mothers, Cecilia the pharmacist and Aurora the grocer, have hated your family for years. Both got pregnant after a brief encounter with Alvar during one of his weekends away from the seminary, back when he made Ugarte his private hunting ground. Both women had shotgun weddings and endured ongoing suspicions about who fathered their children. Irati and Sebas both felt different and excluded, and this common experience brought them together. When they started dating, their families were horrified and did everything in their power to end the relationship. It was a tragedy.
“The three of you hate Ramiro Alvar and what he represents as the legitimate son. But your main motive was money. Gonzalo, you were eager to steal the chronicle when you found out how much it was worth. You weren’t sure the DNA evidence you’d left was enough to send Ramiro Alvar to prison, and the chronicle was your insurance plan.”
Gonzalo looked at me, and then said, very calmly, as though he were speaking to a child, “You call it murder, but I call it theft with collateral damage. The victims were a diversion so I could steal the diary. That book is worth millions of euros—it’s a family fortune. We could split it four ways: If I suffered a relapse I’d be able to pay for treatment at the best hospital. Beltrán could open his own practice and hire the best lawyers without having to waste years building a reputation. Irati and Sebas could finally leave this village and never have to work again. We’ve been victims of the Nograro family since the day we were born: Don’t we deserve what Ramiro Nograro refuses to share?”
“No, Gonzalo,” I said. “You’re just telling yourself that to justify your actions. You manipulated Beltrán, Irati, and Sebas, you got them to do your dirty work for you. You only got personally involved because Maturana discovered that the e-mail Malatrama received about The Lords of Time was sent from Nograro Tower. The e-mail could only have come from Claudia’s computer. Claudia, Irati’s sister. Maturana’s girlfriend told Irati that Kraken had asked her boyfriend to look into the source of the e-mail, and later on she told her what Maturana discovered. That’s when you understood that your plan was about to go off the rails. Maturana realized there was more than one killer, so before he drowned, he scratched a message for me on his arm: Kraken, more than one.”
We handcuffed the other three, and they were led away to spend their first night in the cells at Portal de Foronda.
When I got back to my apartment at midnight, I put a black cross in my balcony window.
“I kept my promise, Matu. The monster is back in his box.”
59
IN THE RAIN
RAMIRO ALVAR
April 2017
Ramiro Alvar had gone for a walk in the rain. He didn’t mind getting mud on his boots; he loved the way the countryside smelled after a storm. He walked along the path leading to Ugarte, veering off into the poplar grove where he strolled contentedly for a while. He contemplated going into the village to talk to the locals, but the wind was picking up, and he decided the most sensible thing to do would be to go home, light a fire, and lose himself in a good book.
But as he passed the church, he noticed something off: the gate to the family cemetery was ajar. He always kept it shut.
Ramiro Alvar entered hesitantly. His glasses were foggy, but he could just make out a figure standing next to one of the graves.
“Hello, may I help you?”
The young man gave a start and wheeled around when he heard Ramiro Alvar’s voice. His eyes were puffy from crying.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here, should I?” he replied.
“No, this is private property….Do I know you from somewhere?”
The lad’s face looked familiar; there was something about his square jaw, his dark, wavy hair. He looked soaked through and bedraggled, but he was well dressed and seemed polite.
“My name is Gonzalo Martínez. My mother is Gemma Martínez, she’s from Ugarte. I recently found out that my father was Alvar Nograro, the man buried in this grave. I don’t know anything about him or his family, yet here I am looking at his grave. At least, I assume it’s his. He was born in 1969.”
“Yes, and he died
in 1999,” Ramiro Alvar confirmed.
Gemma’s son. So she didn’t have an abortion. She took the money and kept the baby, her half brother’s son.
“How did he die?”
“He suffered from a hereditary blood disorder called thalassemia.” It struck Ramiro that he had never told anyone what had killed his brother. He didn’t know why he was telling a total stranger now. At eighteen, he hadn’t had the strength to tell the villagers.
“Did you know him?” Gonzalo asked. Ramiro looked more closely at the young man. He had a cleft palate that made him look feline, and perhaps explained why he seemed a little timid and aloof.
“I’m his brother.”
Gonzalo stared at him for a long time.
“I’m sorry, I’ve never met anybody on my father’s side of the family before.”
“What about your mother?” asked Ramiro Alvar. He wasn’t usually so direct, but the boy had stirred up long-buried memories.
“She’s been gone for a while. I think she left with her new boyfriend. I guess after the money ran out, they saw me as a burden. The police haven’t been able to locate her anywhere in the country; they suspect she doesn’t want to be found. Just before she left, I asked her to tell me something about my family, and finally she told me about the Martínez family in Ugarte, and about Alvar de Nograro. I asked around the village and they said my grandparents are dead, too. So I’m alone. There’s nobody left. I just came to ask about my father. I’m sorry I trespassed on your property—I’m leaving.”
“Don’t worry. Where are you staying tonight?”
“There’s an agritourism place nearby called the Old Forge. The girl who runs it says she has a vacancy. I’ll leave town tomorrow,” he said, turning to go.
“Wait!” cried Ramiro Alvar. “Where…where did Gemma go when she left Ugarte, when she was pregnant with you?”
“I was born in a small village in Asturias, but we moved around a lot when I was a kid.” Gonzalo was being deliberately vague, and he noticed that Ramiro Alvar was taking the bait. “Listen, I wouldn’t blame you for thinking I’d just come here to claim my father’s inheritance, but I promise you, I don’t want money. If you want me to take a DNA test, I would, because I believe my mother. She wouldn’t have lied to me and then run away. I’m twenty-three, and I’ve grown up with no family, no roots. Now that my mother’s gone, I’m all on my own. I just wanted to know a little more about where I’m from, but I can see this place doesn’t have much to offer, and it means nothing to me.”
With that, he walked off in the rain. The girl at the agritourism place, whatever her name was, was waiting for him. They’d slept together the night before, and Gonzalo knew he’d be able to get a free room for a few days.
Ramiro Alvar watched his back get smaller as he walked along the muddy path to Ugarte. He looked like his mother.
The next day Ramiro Alvar woke up shivering. Somebody had left the windows in his bedroom wide open and rain had soaked the bedspread. He had fallen asleep on top of the covers. He looked down and, to his horror, realized that he was wearing Alvar’s cassock. Where did he get it? Hadn’t he thrown all Alvar’s clothes away after the funeral? He felt for his glasses on the bedside table, but he couldn’t find them.
Alvar had hidden them. Alvar had gotten inside his head and was starting to play games with him.
60
THE INTERVIEW ROOM
UNAI
November 2019
Beltrán and Gonzalo had both refused to comment, but Irati and Sebas were ready to talk. I went to my office early and closed the door. I was working out a strategy, but I still had to clarify a few points and I didn’t want to miss anything.
I called Peña.
“Take Irati Mújica to one of the small interview rooms. I’ll be down to question her in a couple of hours.”
She would have plenty of time to think, to get nervous. I was counting on her growing impatient during the long wait.
Finally, around midmorning, I entered the interview room carrying several report files, a notebook, and a pen. It was a rather clumsy way of getting into character, but I wanted information. The setting and props were supposed to make her think that I assumed she was going to answer all my questions.
“How did you sleep?” I began, taking a seat at the table. I positioned myself at a slight angle from her; I didn’t want her to see our conversation as a confrontation.
“Oh, I was very comfortable,” she replied sarcastically.
“Good,” I said, nodding. “I heard you wanted to talk to me. You’re doing the right thing cooperating; we have plenty of evidence. Now tell me, how did all this start?”
“I’m not sure what you mean by ‘all.’ Sebas, Beltrán, and I have always been friends. Apparently you already know about the rumors we had to put up with in Ugarte, about Alvar de Nograro and our mothers, and you know that Beltrán asked Ramiro Alvar for work to gain access to his private papers. Well, Beltrán’s dreams about claiming his share of the inheritance were intoxicating, and we all wanted in. We used to spend hours talking about what we’d do if we took Ramiro Alvar to court and a judge ruled in our favor. It was like dreaming about winning the lottery and becoming millionaires. I think, eventually, we started to count on that money. It was no longer a fantasy born out of resentment; it became our lives.”
“Did Beltrán encourage you to take the next step?” I probed.
“Beltrán went to the tower a lot. He managed to get a sample of Ramiro Alvar’s saliva, and we sent it to a lab along with our own samples for a DNA comparison.”
“And there was no match.”
“No. None of us is related to Ramiro Alvar. We aren’t Nograros. It was partly a relief, because it meant Sebas and I weren’t half siblings. But I confess, we felt deflated. We weren’t going to be millionaires after all, and we couldn’t even tell the whole village that we weren’t bastards without admitting that we’d obtained Ramiro Alvar’s DNA without his consent. Sebas and I told our parents so they’d stop talking about what they called our ‘incestuous relationship.’ But our mothers still aren’t speaking, and I doubt they ever will. Their feud has gone on too long.”
“So you were disappointed about the money.”
“It was like the day after the Christmas lottery. You spend Christmas Eve dreaming about what you’re going to do when you win the prize money, and then you find out you didn’t win and you have to accept that you’re never going to be a millionaire. Yes, we were disappointed. It felt as though we’d been doused with a bucket of cold water.”
“And then Gonzalo Martínez showed up in Ugarte in”—I leafed through my notes—“2017. He made friends with the three of you, and he told you he was Alvar Nograro and Gemma Martínez’s son.”
“We didn’t believe him. We told him that we’d been through the same thing because of rumors, that spreading gossip about the Nograros was a tradition in the village, and that he shouldn’t believe anything he heard. But then Gonzalo was diagnosed with thalassemia, and Ramiro Alvar offered to help him. The preliminary tests showed that they were a match. So it seemed as if Gonzalo really was a Nograro. They kept in touch, and occasionally Gonzalo would visit him at the tower. Months later, after Gonzalo had recovered completely, he showed us the manuscript he’d seen in Ramiro Alvar’s study. Gonzalo had scanned it and replaced it without Ramiro Alvar’s knowledge. We had no idea it was based on a priceless antique text. But Beltrán knew the Malatrama publisher, because he’d handled copyright questions when the council published a catalog for the temporary exhibition at the tower. In fact, around that time Ramiro Alvar started to give him other minor legal matters to handle.”
I sighed. All of this had taken place in the analog world, while we were focusing all our efforts online. No one had hacked into Ramiro Alvar’s computer.
“And thanks to Beltrán Pérez de Apodaca’s legal
inquiries, you knew that inheriting the Nograro fortune was conditional: ‘May he be neither convict nor prisoner, to ensure the lineage is confined to men of honor,’ ” I quoted.
“Beltrán assured us that if we managed to frame Ramiro for a crime, he would be stripped of the Nograro fortune and his title would pass to the next male in line. That would be Gonzalo, who had legal proof that Alvar was his father. Beltrán also told us that the heir was no longer legally obliged to bear the name Alvar. In any case, Gonzalo could easily go to the registry office and change his name.”
“But he would have legally inherited the title and fortune after Ramiro Alvar’s death anyway.”
“When? In forty years maybe, when Ramiro Alvar died and it was too late for us. Why would we run the risk of Ramiro Alvar having children of his own?” she exclaimed. “No, Gonzalo wasn’t about to wait around, and, anyway, he hated Ramiro Alvar for not letting him live at the tower. He loathed running a bar; he thought it was beneath him. Gonzalo was a dropout who never did a day’s work in his life—he and his mother lived off Nograro family money. But he knew that if he killed Ramiro Alvar in order to claim his inheritance, he’d be the prime suspect. Besides, Gonzalo wanted to see Ramiro in prison, stripped of everything. Disinheriting his uncle became Gonzalo’s obsession.”
“Even after Ramiro Alvar gave him the money to buy the bar and donated his bone marrow to save Gonzalo’s life?”
“Ramiro Alvar only did that to atone for the way his family behaved,” she said, with a wave of her hand. “He felt guilty. Don’t defend him.”
“He also gave you the forge and paid for the remodel, so you could set up the glassworks and the agritourism. Are you even the slightest bit grateful to him for all that?”
“Honestly, I saw it as compensation for emotional distress. I believed he knew about the rumors, and he gave me the forge to make up for what the Nograro family did to me. And I still see it that way.”
The Lords of Time Page 40