It was daylight, and Ibai was already awake. She could hear him moving, gurgling softly as he kicked his legs in the air, pushing off the duvet, which would end up at the foot of his cot. She didn’t open her eyes immediately; it had taken her ages to fall asleep again after they made love, and, eyelids still heavy, she relished the idea of lazing in bed for another five minutes. She heard James get up, gather Ibai in his arms and whisper to him:
‘Are you hungry? We’ll let Ama snooze.’
She heard them leave the room, as she lay there, trying in vain to relax into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. All of a sudden, the dream about Markina came flooding back. She knew better than anyone that we aren’t responsible for our dreams, that the most pleasurable fantasies and the sickest nightmares come from a mysterious, unreachable place beyond our control. Still, she felt guilty. Wide-awake now, irritated at having had to renounce those five extra minutes of peace, she analysed her feelings. She realised the sense of guilt came not from having dreamt about Markina, but rather because she had made love with her husband stimulated by the desire she felt for the judge.
As James entered the room, bringing her a cup of coffee, the mobile on her bedside table made an unpleasant buzzing noise.
‘Good morning, Iriarte.’
‘Good morning, Inspector. We’ve just had a call from the prison in Pamplona. Berasategui has been found dead in his cell.’
She hung up, leapt to her feet, dressing between sips of coffee. She hated drinking it like that; she’d got into the habit of drinking her morning coffee in bed back when she was a student and it remained her preferred way to start the morning. Rushing to get ready was something she detested; it always augured a bad day.
The prison governor was waiting for them at the entrance, pacing up and down like a caged animal. He extended his hand courteously, then invited them to follow him to his office. Amaia refused, requesting to see the body immediately.
A guard escorted them through the various security gates until they reached the isolation cells. They could tell which one was Berasategui’s from the guard posted outside the metal door.
‘The doctor found no signs of violence on the body,’ explained the director. ‘He was placed in isolation yesterday at Judge Markina’s request, and hadn’t spoken to anyone since.’ He signalled to the guard to unlock the door, then ushered them in.
‘But someone must have come in here,’ said Inspector Montes, ‘if only to confirm that he was dead.’
‘One of the guards noticed he wasn’t moving and raised the alarm. The only people to have entered the cell are the prison doctor, who confirmed that he was dead, and myself. We called you immediately. It appears he died of natural causes.’
The cell, which contained no personal effects, was clean and tidy, the bedclothes smoothed out, military fashion. Dr Berasategui lay face up on his bunk, fully dressed down to his shoes, face relaxed, eyes closed. The scent of his cologne filled the cell, yet the perfect neatness of his clothes, his hands clasped on his chest, gave the impression of an embalmed corpse.
‘Natural causes, you say?’ Amaia frowned. ‘This was a thirty-six-year-old man who kept himself in good shape; he even had a gym in his apartment. Not only that, he was a doctor, so he’d have been the first to know if he was unwell, don’t you think?’
‘I must admit, this is the best-looking corpse I’ve ever seen!’ Montes joked, nudging Zabalza, who was searching the perimeter of the cell with a flashlight.
Amaia pulled on the gloves Inspector Etxaide handed to her and approached the bunk. She studied the body in silence for a few minutes, until she became aware of Dr San Martín standing behind her.
‘What have we here, Inspector? The prison doctor tells me there are no signs of violence, and suggests death by natural causes.’
‘There are no objects in here with which he could have harmed himself,’ said Montes, ‘and whatever the cause of death, you can see from looking at him that he didn’t suffer.’
‘Well, if you’ve finished here, I’ll take him away. The results of the autopsy should be ready later today.’
‘Berasategui didn’t die of natural causes,’ Amaia broke in. The others said nothing, and she thought she heard Zabalza sigh. ‘Look at the way he’s arranged, right in the centre of the bed. Clothes smoothed out, shoes polished. Hands placed exactly as he’d want us to see them when we walked in here. This guy was a proud, vain narcissist, who would never have let us discover him in an embarrassing or humiliating attitude.’
‘Suicide doesn’t fit the profile of a narcissistic personality,’ Jonan ventured.
‘Yes, I know, that’s what threw me when we walked in. On the one hand, it fits; on the other, it doesn’t. Suicide may not be typical of someone with his personality, but if Berasategui were going to take his own life, this is exactly how I imagine he’d go about it.’
‘But the body shows no signs of suicide,’ protested Zabalza.
His curiosity piqued, San Martín approached Berasategui’s corpse, felt his throat, lifted his eyelids and looked down his throat.
‘All the hallmarks of a heart attack, but it’s true he was relatively young and in good shape. On the other hand, there are no lesions, no defensive wounds, or other signs of injury. Anyone would think,’ said the doctor, looking round at the company, ‘that he simply lay down and died.’
‘Quite right, Doctor. That’s exactly what he did: he lay down and died. But to do that, he needed help. How long had he been in isolation?’ she said, addressing the director.
‘Since approximately eleven o’clock yesterday morning, shortly after Judge Markina called me. I was away, but my deputy informed me fifteen minutes after he’d been moved.’
‘Are there any cameras in these cells?’ asked Montes, shining a flashlight into the corners of the room.
‘No, they aren’t necessary. Guards monitor prisoners in isolation through the windows in the cell doors. But we have CCTV out in the corridors. I assumed you’d want to see the tape, so I’ve prepared a copy.’
‘What about the two men who were guarding him yesterday?’
‘They’ve been suspended, pending an investigation of that other incident,’ replied the director, looking uncomfortable.
Montes and Etxaide, having no idea what this ‘other incident’ might be, turned to look at her, demanding answers. Ignoring them, Amaia approached the bunk once more and said:
‘Dr Berasategui had no wish to die, but his personality prevented him from permitting another to take his life for him.’
‘He didn’t want to die, yet he killed himself …?’
She leaned over the body, illuminating his face with her flashlight. Berasategui’s bronzed skin revealed a whitish residue confined to the wrinkles around his eyes.
‘Tears,’ announced San Martín.
‘Yes, sir,’ she agreed. ‘True to his nature as a narcissist, Berasategui lay down here, out of self-pity, wept over his own death. Copiously,’ she said, feeling a patch of fabric visibly darker than the rest. ‘He cried so much he soaked the pillow with his tears.’
12
Montes felt satisfied. The CCTV footage revealed a guard approaching Berasategui’s cell, and slipping something through the window, which, although it wasn’t visible on camera could easily have been something he used to kill himself. The guard had finished his shift and made himself scarce by the time they sent a patrol car to his house. He was probably in France or Portugal by now. Even so, knowing that bastard Berasategui was dead had made Montes’s day.
As he leaned forward to turn on the radio, the car swerved slightly, the front tyre touching the white line at the side of the road.
‘Careful!’ cried Zabalza from the passenger seat. He’d been subdued throughout the journey and Montes assumed he was sulking because he’d refused to let him drive. What the hell! No brat was going to take the wheel while Montes was in the car. He glanced sidelong at him, grinning.
‘Calm down, you’re as a tense as a te
enage boy’s scrotum,’ he said, laughing at his own joke, until he saw that Zabalza was still irritated.
‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘She drives me crazy …’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think? The fucking star cop.’
‘Watch your mouth, lad!’ warned Montes.
‘Didn’t you see that mystical act she puts on? The way she stood looking at Berasategui’s body, as if she felt sorry for him, waiting for the room to go quiet before she spoke, as if she was about to pass judgement. As for that bullshit about him crying – for fuck’s sake! Everyone knows that corpses cry, piss themselves, leak fluid from every orifice.’
‘Berasategui certainly didn’t piss himself … I imagine he was careful not to drink anything, because he wanted to be immaculate when we found him. Besides, the pillow was sodden. I think the guy really did weep over his own death.’
‘Rubbish,’ scoffed Zabalza.
‘No, it isn’t rubbish. You should be watching, not criticising, you might learn something.’
‘Who from? That clown?’
The two men were thrown forward slightly, as Montes stepped on the brakes, pulling over into a lay-by.
‘Why did you do that?’ Zabalza cried, startled.
‘Because I don’t want to hear you talk about Inspector Salazar like that again. Not only is she your superior, she’s an outstanding police officer and a loyal colleague.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Fermín!’ Zabalza laughed. ‘Don’t get so upset. You’re the one who coined the phrase “star cop” remember.’
Montes looked straight at him as he started the car again.
‘You’re right, and I was wrong. They say hindsight is twenty-twenty, don’t they? If you have any problems, you can always come to me, but I warn you, I won’t hear any more of this kind of talk,’ he said, joining the motorway again.
‘I don’t have any problems,’ muttered Zabalza.
As she left the cell, Amaia noticed the prison governor standing further along the corridor talking to Judge Markina, whose hushed voice brought back vivid recollections of her dream the night before. She concentrated on the brief summary she would give him before making her escape, but it was too late, the murmur of his voice had drawn her in, even though she was too far away to hear what he was saying. She stood watching his gesticulations, his habit of touching his face when he spoke, the way his jeans narrowed at the waist, how the blue of his shirt gave him a youthful air. She found herself speculating about how old he was, thinking it odd that she didn’t know. She waited for Dr San Martín to arrive and then joined them. She did her best to avoid Markina’s gaze while she gave a brief report, but without making it too obvious.
‘Will you attend the autopsy, Inspector?’ asked San Martín, with a sweeping gesture that included Deputy Inspector Etxaide.
‘Start without me, Doctor, I’ll join you later. Perhaps you’d like to go, Jonan, there’s something I have to do first,’ she added evasively.
‘Going home again today, boss?’ he teased.
She smiled, admiring his astuteness.
‘All right, Deputy Inspector, would you like to come with me?’
13
The receptionist at the University Hospital hadn’t forgotten Amaia, judging by the way the woman’s face froze the instant she saw her. Even so, the inspector fished out her badge, prodding Jonan to do likewise. Both detectives placed their badges squarely on the counter.
‘We’d like to see Dr Sarasola, please.’
‘I don’t know if he’s here,’ the woman replied, picking up the receiver. She gave their names, listened to the reply then, with a sour expression, motioned towards the lift doors. ‘Fourth floor, they’ll show you the way.’ There was a tone of caution in the woman’s voice as she said these last words. Amaia grinned at her and winked, then started towards the lift.
Sarasola received them in his office, behind a desk heaped with papers, which he pushed aside. He stood up, accompanying them to the chairs over by the window.
‘I imagine you’re here about Dr Berasategui’s death,’ he said, as they shook hands.
Few things happened in Pamplona without Sarasola’s knowledge; even so, Amaia and Deputy Inspector Etxaide were somewhat taken aback. Noticing their expressions, he added:
‘The prison governor has family ties with Opus Dei.’
Amaia nodded.
‘So, how may I help you?’
‘Did you visit Dr Berasategui in prison?’
They knew that Sarasola had visited him. She’d asked the question to see whether he’d admit it.
‘On three separate occasions – in a purely professional capacity, I might add. As you know, I have a special interest in cases of abnormal behaviour that possess the nuance of evil.’
‘Did Dr Berasategui mention anything to you about Rosario’s escape, or what happened that night?’ asked Etxaide.
‘I’m afraid our conversations were rather technical and abstract – although fascinating, needless to say. Berasategui was an excellent clinician, which made discussing his own behaviour and actions a daunting task. He thwarted all my attempts to analyse him so that in the end I limited myself to offering him spiritual solace. In any event, nothing he might have said about Rosario or what happened that night would be of any use. One thing I do know is that you should never listen to people who have embraced evil, because they only tell lies.’
Amaia stifled a sigh, which Jonan recognised as a sign that she was becoming impatient.
‘So did you talk about Rosario, or have you lost interest in the matter?’
‘Of course, but he immediately changed the subject. Knowing what you do now, Inspector, I trust that you no longer hold me responsible for Rosario’s escape.’
‘I don’t. However, I am beginning to suspect that this is all part of a far more intricate plan, starting with Rosario’s transfer from Santa María de las Nieves and culminating in the events of that night – which weren’t your fault, either.’
Sarasola leaned forward in his chair and looked straight at Amaia.
‘I’m glad you’re beginning to understand,’ he said.
‘Oh, I understand, but I still find it difficult to believe that a man like you didn’t notice that something untoward was going on in this clinic.’
‘This isn’t my—’
‘I know, I know, it’s not your clinic, but you know perfectly well what I mean,’ she snapped.
‘And I apologised for that,’ he protested. ‘You’re right, once I became involved in the case I should have kept a closer eye on Berasategui, but in this instance I, too, am a victim.’
She always found it distasteful when someone who wasn’t dead or in hospital referred to themselves as a victim. Amaia knew only too well what it meant to be a victim, and Sarasola wasn’t one.
‘In any event, Berasategui’s suicide doesn’t add up. I visited him in prison too, and I’d have said he was more of an escape risk than a suicide risk.’
‘Suicide is a form of escape,’ Jonan broke in, ‘although it doesn’t fit his profile.’
‘I agree with Inspector Salazar,’ replied Sarasola, ‘and allow me to tell you something about behaviour profiles. They may work, even for individuals suffering from mental illness. But they are far from reliable when dealing with someone who is the embodiment of evil.’
‘That’s exactly what I mean when I talk about a premeditated plan. What would drive a man like that to take his own life?’ declared Amaia.
‘The same thing that drove him to carry out those other acts: to achieve some unknown end.’
‘Bearing that in mind, do you believe Rosario is dead, or that somehow she got away?’
‘I know no more than you. Everything points to the river having—’
‘Dr Sarasola, I was hoping we had got beyond that stage in our relationship. Why not help me instead of telling me what you think I want to hear?’ she said.
‘I believe that, beside
s inciting those men to commit murder, Berasategui devised a way of drawing you into the investigation by leaving your ancestors’ bones in the church at Arizkun, that for months he was working towards Rosario’s transfer from Santa María de las Nieves, and her subsequent escape from this clinic. The plan was meticulously carried out, which makes me think that he took every possible contingency into account. Rosario may be an elderly woman, but after seeing the images of her leaving the clinic with Berasategui, I …’
‘You what?’
‘I believe she’s out there, somewhere,’ he admitted.
‘But why involve me, why this provocation?’
‘I can only think that it’s connected with your mother.’
Amaia took a photograph out of her bag and passed it to him.
‘This is the inside of the cave where Berasategui and my mother were preparing to kill my son, Ibai.’
Sarasola studied the image, looked at Amaia for a few seconds, then at the photograph again.
‘Doctor, I suspect that the tarttalo killings are the grisly tip of an iceberg aimed at drawing our attention away from a far more horrible crime. Something connected to these sacrileges that would explain the clear symbolic use of bones belonging to children in my family, why they wanted to kill my son and didn’t, and, I believe, the Church’s response to a desecration, which on the face of it wasn’t all that shocking.’
Sarasola looked at them in silence, then examined the photograph once more. Amaia leaned forward, touching the priest’s forearm.
‘I need your help, please. Tell me what you see in this picture.’
‘Inspector Salazar, you’re aware that you share the name of an illustrious inquisitor. When the witch hunts reached their apogee, your ancestor, Salazar y Frías opened an investigation into the presence of evil in the Baztán Valley, which spread across the border to France. After dwelling among the population for over a year, he concluded that the practice of witchcraft was much more deeply rooted in the local culture than Christianity itself, which although firmly established, had been bastardised by the old beliefs that held sway in the area prior to the foundation of the Catholic Church. Salazar y Frías was an open-minded man, a scientist and investigator, who employed methods of inquiry and analysis similar to those you use today. Of course, many of the people questioned were undoubtedly driven to confess to such practices to avoid being tortured by the Inquisition, the mere mention of which sent them into a panic. I admire Salazar y Frías’s decision to put a stop to that insanity, but among the numerous crimes he investigated, many remained unsolved, in particular those involving the deaths of children, infants and young girls, whose bodies subsequently disappeared. Such stories appear in several statements; however, once the cruel methods of the Inquisition were abolished, all the statements taken at that time were deemed unreliable.
Offering to the Storm Page 7