He placed a cup in front of Zabalza, stirring sugar into his own.
‘Here, drink this, it might put some colour back in your cheeks, then you can tell me what’s on your mind.’
Zabalza slid his eyes away from the screen. ‘What makes you think there’s anything to tell?’
‘For fuck’s sake, Zabalza, I’ve been listening to the cogs in your brain spin round all morning.’
Zabalza cocked his head to one side, in a gesture of defeat.
‘Marisa and I fixed a date for the wedding yesterday.’
Montes’s eyes opened wide.
‘Sonofabitch! You’re getting married and you weren’t going to tell me?’
‘I’m telling you now, aren’t I?’ protested Zabalza.
Montes rose to shake his hand, pulling Zabalza to his feet to give him a firm embrace.
‘Congratulations, my boy, that’s more like it!’
A few of the other patrons turned around and stared at them. Montes sat down again, beaming.
‘So that’s what this was all about! Fuck, I thought it was something serious …’
‘Well … I don’t know …’
Montes looked at him, still smiling.
‘I know what you’re going through – because the same thing happened to me: it’s that feeling of imminence. Once you’ve fixed a date, there’s no turning back, you know you’re going to be a married man, and for some men those weeks or months feel like a walk to the gallows. Take it from me, it’s normal to be plagued with doubt. Right now, all your reasons for taking this step have faded into the background, and you can only think about why you shouldn’t, especially if you’ve been through some rough patches with your partner,’ Montes’s voice had softened to a murmur, and Zabalza noticed him staring into the bottom of his cup, ‘or even a trial separation, because of some problem that seemed insuperable at the time. But you tell yourself, nobody’s perfect, especially not you, and you have to give the relationship a chance.’
‘Well!’ said Zabalza. ‘I wasn’t expecting that kind of talk coming from you.’
‘Why? Because I’m divorced? Maybe you assume my experience has turned me against marriage. I won’t deny that it did, for a while, but it also taught me that, of the many rights we possess, the most important is the right to make a mistake, to admit that, to value it, instead of turning it into a life sentence.’
‘The right to make a mistake …’ echoed Zabalza. ‘But what if our mistakes hurt others?’
‘That’s the way of the world, lad. You make your own choices, your own mistakes, and you leave others to make theirs.’
Zabalza contemplated him for a few seconds, mulling over his words.
‘That’s a sound piece of advice,’ he said.
Montes nodded, standing up to pay for their coffees at the bar. Glancing round at Zabalza, he thought he looked as morose as before, if not more so.
The days were starting to get longer. As the sun went down, a mysterious golden glow prolonged the afternoons, making the river sparkle and casting a silvery light on the new buds, which Amaia had only just noticed on the trees outside the police station. She turned to face the room, where her team were gathered for the meeting she had called.
Inspector Iriarte had been unusually quiet while they waited for everyone to arrive. He was sitting stiffly in his chair, staring at the autopsy report on Elena Ochoa. During the year or more they had been working together, Amaia had come to appreciate Iriarte. He was a good man, an excellent detective, exceptionally responsible and conscientious; a cop who went by the rule book, perhaps a little too much so to make a truly brilliant detective, but in all the time she’d known him she had never seen him lose his cool.
It occurred to her that in some ways Iriarte resembled her husband. Like James, he knew about and accepted the dark side of humanity, the awful, wretched lives some people led, and, like James, he chose to live within the margins of what he could understand and control. James’s artistic side allowed him to go along with Engrasi’s fortune-telling, or the benign powers of the goddess Mari, much as a child thrilled by a magic show in which a human agent is behind the façade. Possibly Iriarte had taken things a step further, and his decision to join the police force arose from a simplistic understanding of the world, of family values, of what constituted goodness, and his determination to protect them at all costs. What upset him wasn’t in the autopsy report lying on the table in front of him – San Martín’s verdict that Elena Ochoa’s cause of death was suicide by ingestion of sharp objects – but rather what he’d seen on the slab at the Navarre Institute of Forensic Medicine.
While they were taking their seats, Montes commenced in a cheerful voice.
‘Well, boss, we have a few little surprises for you. This morning we visited the two couples mentioned in Jonan’s report, and the one added by the pathologist. All three couples have since moved house, although two of them remained in the same village. We started with the couple in Lekaroz – who insinuated that pathologists were involved in organ trafficking. I don’t know where they lived back then, but they own a big mansion now. We told them we were investigating a spate of burglaries in the area and they invited us in. They even showed us round their garage. I could retire on the proceeds from just one of their cars. Apparently, they’re in the pharmaceutical business. The couple in Arraioz also seem to be doing very well financially. The caretaker told us they were away on holiday, but we were able to see the house from the outside, and the newly built stables. It seems they own a gas prospecting company in South America, so it’s no wonder they elected to stop receiving benefits. The third couple are also rolling in money, which isn’t surprising as they’ve always been lawyers. This is the case where the mother had cancer and the girl who died was an only child. They used to live in Elbete, but moved to Pamplona. We haven’t seen the house, but their chambers are impressive: two hundred square metres in the posh part of town. What’s amazing is that the wife, who was terminally ill in 1987, isn’t just alive, she’s as fresh as a daisy.’
‘Are you sure it’s the same woman? Perhaps the husband remarried.’
‘It’s definitely her. Her name is on the plaque outside: Lejarreta & Andía. Besides, we spoke to her in person. She’s alive and well, and still quite attractive,’ he added, nudging Zabalza, who lowered his gaze, embarrassed.
‘Lejarreta & Andía. Never heard of them,’ said Iriarte.
‘That’s probably because they’re commercial not criminal lawyers, import–export, that sort of thing.’
‘The name rings a bell,’ said Amaia, getting up to fish out of her coat pocket the elegant business card Martínez-Bayón had given her outside his house: Lejarreta & Andía. Lawyers.
She placed the card on the table for everyone to see, pausing for a few seconds to collect her thoughts.
‘I think you’re all aware that Elena Ochoa, the woman who died yesterday, was a family friend – a friend of my mother, to be precise. You also know that since the night we arrested Berasategui and Rosario disappeared, I’ve had my doubts about their movements after leaving the clinic and before arriving at my aunt’s house. I’ve always thought they must have gone somewhere else, to a safe house, where Rosario changed her clothes. We know they didn’t go to his father’s house, and that brings us back to Elena Ochoa. She told me that in the late seventies, early eighties she joined a sect – a kind of hippy commune that was operating out of a farmhouse in Orabidea. To begin with, they organised cultural encounters and spiritual gatherings, but soon they started to dabble in the occult. They sacrificed small animals, and there was talk of carrying out a human sacrifice, which was when Elena decided to leave. Apparently, the sect remained active for some years. Groups like that sprung up everywhere in those days, no doubt influenced by pseudo-Satanist groups like the Manson Family, who gained notoriety after their infamous killing spree. Lots of young people, disillusioned with Christianity and the conservative values of the time, experimented with free love, drugs and
occultism – a heady cocktail, which enhanced the sex appeal of cult leaders. The majority of cults disbanded when the LSD ran out.
‘Following Elena Ochoa’s directions, I found the farmhouse this morning. In fact, it’s been completely modernised and is now protected by a high wall and CCTV cameras. The owners are a respectable, wealthy couple in their sixties; they were the founding members of the sect. A neighbour of theirs gave me a positive ID on Berasategui’s car, and when questioned the couple admitted they knew him. However, when I pressed them about the nature of their dealings with him, they handed me this card: Lejarreta & Andía. Lawyers …’
‘It could be a coincidence, they must have a lot of clients,’ said Iriarte.
‘Yes, it could be,’ she conceded, ‘but the neighbour also told me they had a baby girl who died, and when I mentioned this, they became hysterical. That could also be a coincidence, but I’m starting to see too many dead babies.’
‘Are you suggesting these couples killed their children? The autopsies gave the cause of death as SIDS.’
Amaia evaded the question.
‘What we need is to find out whether one or more of these couples are linked to the two lawyers, to Berasategui, or to the Martínez-Bayóns. I’d also like to get hold of a copy of the girl’s death certificate. Her name was Ainara Martínez-Bayón. She died of a brain haemorrhage aged fourteen months, apparently during a trip to the UK, where she was also buried. Jonan, could you look into that? Don’t you have a friend who works at the Spanish Embassy in London?’ she said, rising to signal the end of the meeting. She walked over to the door, where she waited for everyone to file out, intercepting Montes before he had a chance to leave. ‘Montes, one moment.’ She called him back, closed the door, then turned towards him.
Inspector Montes was one of those people who look you straight in the eye when they have something to say to you; she put it down to his impulsive, sincere nature. On at least two occasions in the past few days Amaia had been convinced he was about to open up, but in the end he hadn’t.
She went straight to the point.
‘Fermín, I think there’s something you’ve been wanting to tell me for a few days now.’
He nodded, feeling both relief at facing the inevitable and anguish at being unable to avoid it, but he said nothing. Amaia realised that speaking to him as his superior in her office might not be the ideal place for him to open up; Fermín Montes was the kind of guy who preferred to talk over a drink.
‘Do you have time for a beer and a chat after work?’
‘Of course, boss,’ he replied, breathing a sigh. ‘But first, come and have a coffee – I’m inviting everyone. We’re celebrating: Zabalza’s getting married.’
She let Montes go on ahead, taking a few seconds to wipe the look of consternation off her face, as she heard the sounds of jubilation with which the others greeted the news.
After three beers and a plate of deep-fried squid at the Casino Bar, Montes seemed relaxed enough to talk. She laughed at the joke he’d just told, then said:
‘Okay, Fermín, are you going to tell me now, or are you waiting until I’m totally pissed?’
He lowered his eyes and pushed his glass towards the middle of the bar.
‘Do you fancy a stroll?’
She left a banknote on the bar then followed him outside.
In the past hour, the temperature had dropped several degrees, and the icy gusts of wind had sent everyone fleeing indoors. They crossed the square in silence, and then walked down the main street. Finally, Fermín came to a halt outside the doors to the church, and looked her straight in the eye. Whatever it was he wanted to say, he was clearly finding it very difficult.
‘I don’t know how to tell you this, but here goes. A few days ago, Flora and I got back together.’
Amaia opened her mouth, incredulous, barely whispering:
‘What do you mean, you got back together?’
He avoided her probing gaze for an instant, as though searching among the shadows surrounding the church for the words to explain something he himself found inexplicable.
‘I was on my way to the police station a few days ago, when I saw her in her car. She called me over … We talked, and now we’re back together.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Fermín! Have you gone mad? Have you forgotten what she did to you? What you were about to do to yourself?’
He looked away again, chewing his lip as he gazed up at the clear, cold night sky above Baztán.
‘She’s wicked, Fermín. Flora is wicked, she’ll destroy you, she’ll finish you off, she’s a fucking devil, can’t you see that?’
Montes exploded, seizing her by the shoulders and shaking her, as he drew his face close to hers:
‘Of course I can! I know what she’s capable of, but what can I do? I fell madly in love with her the first day I met her. I’ve tried to convince myself otherwise, but the fact is I haven’t stopped loving her during all this time, and somehow I know that Flora is my last chance.’
He was so close she could see the torment in his eyes, feel his suffering. She raised her hand, placing it gently on his cheek as she shook her head.
‘For fuck’s sake, Fermín …’ she said despairingly.
‘I know …’
They stepped away from each other, and as if by tacit consent, started to walk in silence towards Calle Santiago. When they reached the bridge, she came to a halt.
‘Fermín, you must never, under any circumstances, tell Flora anything – and I mean anything – about what happens or is said inside or outside the police station regarding any of these cases. Never.’ He nodded. ‘Never,’ she repeated. ‘Say it.’
‘Never, I give you my word. I’ve learned my lesson.’
‘I hope so, Inspector Montes, because if you give me any cause to suspect otherwise, it won’t matter how much respect I have for you, I’ll make sure not only that you’re taken off this case, but that you’re dismissed from the police force, for good.’
For the first time in her life, Amaia crossed the bridge without noticing the sound of water in the weir. Fuelled by a mounting anger that made her oblivious to the cold, she approached her aunt’s house at a brisk pace. At the last moment she decided to walk off her rage before going in. Then she noticed Flora’s car parked outside the arched entrance. She stopped in her tracks, gazing at the vehicle as if it had been left there by some extra-terrestrial being. She marched into the house without taking off her coat and put her head round the sitting room door. They were all gathered around Flora, listening politely as she told them how well she had organised Rosario’s funeral service. Flora was holding a saucer in one hand and a cup in the other, taking small sips from it as she spoke.
Amaia was vaguely aware of her family’s voices greeting her and Flora’s no doubt sarcastic contribution. As if from a long way off she heard her own voice, angry and sharp, addressing her sister.
‘Get your coat and come outside with me.’
Her words and manner brooked no argument.
Flora’s smile faded. ‘Is anything the matter, Amaia?’
Amaia didn’t reply, she grabbed her sister’s coat from the stand in the entrance and threw it at her feet. Ignoring the pleas and protests of the others, she waited silently by the front door until Flora brushed past her. She followed her outside, closing the door behind them.
‘What’s all the fuss about?’
‘Stop pretending, Flora! Stop pretending that you’re a normal person and tell me what the hell you’re up to.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘I’m talking about Fermín Montes, the man whose life you nearly destroyed, the police officer who was suspended from duty for the best part of a year because of you.’
Flora collected herself, adopting her habitual air of barely contained irritation.
‘I don’t see why I owe you an explanation. Fermín is a man and I’m a woman, we’re both grown-ups.’
‘That’s where
you are wrong, Sister. Don’t forget, I was there the night Víctor died. I know what really happened. I know what your interest in Montes was then; what I don’t understand is what you want from him now. Just leave the poor guy alone.’
Flora laughed.
‘Well, little sister, I didn’t know you had such strong feelings for Fermín.’ Her face twisted into a sneer. ‘You can’t prove what happened the night Víctor died – you haven’t a clue. I admit I wasn’t altogether honest with Fermín when we first met, but I was still a married woman then, and he knew that. Things are different now. My interest in him is sincere.’
‘Sincere, my eye! Although I believe the interest part – interest being the word that defines all your relationships. I’m sure the same applies to Fermín, only your interest has nothing to do with him being a man, because if I’m not mistaken what interests you, Flora, comes in a different package: young, blonde and very pretty.’
Flora’s customary disdain gave way to a rage as intense as Amaia’s, uniting the two sisters perhaps for the first time ever. Choked with anger and grief, her voice cracked as she spoke.
‘You know nothing about my relationship with Anne! I forbid you to mention her name.’
Amaia gazed at her sister in astonishment. Flora, back arched, as if she were supporting a terrible weight. All the life seemed to drain from her, her face darkening in front of Amaia’s eyes, like someone gravely ill. This wasn’t the first time Amaia had seen her sister like this. Whenever she mentioned Anne Arbizu, her response seemed so dramatic, so genuine, that Amaia was still more convinced that her sister’s passion for Anne couldn’t compare to anything she had felt for a man, a passion so devastating that it continued to consume her, and had even driven her to kill.
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