She contemplated her sister in silence. There wasn’t much more she could say to a person who was stooping to pick up her shattered dignity. Flora pulled her coat tightly about her, flashing her sister a final look of contempt as she climbed into her car. Amaia removed her phone from her pocket and took several photographs of the front of the vehicle.
20
Ibai would wake up early, sometimes just before dawn. Later, towards nine thirty or ten in the morning, he would go to sleep until midday, but during those first hours, he was jolly and communicative, gurgling incessantly. Amaia took the boy in her arms, closing the bedroom door behind her so that James could go on sleeping. She spent the next couple of hours walking around the house with her son, pointing out each cherished object, gazing through the window at the River Baztán flowing past the house, serene in that cold morning glow. She sang made up songs about how beautiful he was and how much she loved him. He gazed at everything, wide-eyed, beaming at her, pressing his moist lips to her cheek in what seemed like kisses. She received them with joy, planting hundreds more on his little blond head, breathing in his sweet aroma of butter and biscuits.
The previous evening had been less agreeable. James and her aunt had made their disapproval of her treatment of Flora clear throughout the meal. Only Ros had tried, unsuccessfully, to make conversation. Then, on their way to bed, even though Amaia had explained to them that her argument with Flora had nothing to do with the funeral, James had said:
‘Just before you barged in, Flora had confirmed that the service will take place in the Santiago parish church the day after tomorrow. Regardless of your quarrel with your sister, I hope you do as I asked and accompany me to the church.’
She made a pot of coffee with one hand, loath to let go of Ibai even for a second, as she reflected about how well James knew her. It didn’t matter how many promises he forced out of her, he knew she was stubborn, and that she never gave up without a fight. She understood his reasons for wanting her to accept, even if only for the duration of the service, that Rosario was dead. On the other hand, she found it intolerable that, loving her as he did, he was capable of asking her to go against her own nature.
As she saw him enter the kitchen with his dazzling smile, a pair of pyjama bottoms and a snug, Denver Broncos T-shirt that showed off his six-pack, she remembered why she adored him.
‘You’ve pinched my dressing gown,’ he whispered, kissing her as he stroked Ibai’s head.
‘Here, you can have it back, I’m late,’ she said.
Handing him their son, she slipped out of the roomy gown, beneath which she was naked except for her knickers. James purposefully mispronounced an expletive, making her chuckle, as she recalled him telling her how, when he’d first arrived there, and, like all foreigners, he had learned to swear in Spanish, and had created a personal repertory of nonsense swear words, for his own amusement.
As she closed her bedroom door behind her, Amaia heard her aunt go downstairs. She climbed into the shower and stood beneath the stream of hot water waiting until she heard James enter the bathroom and disrobe. She smiled because it felt good that some things were so predictable, so wonderfully predictable.
Detective Inspector Etxaide was waiting for Amaia in her office. She could tell the moment she entered that he had made a discovery. He was grinning like a child unable to contain his excitement, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and drumming his fingers on the file he was clutching.
‘Good morning, Jonan, have you got something for me?’
‘Morning, boss. I’m not sure which is more significant: what I’ve found or what I haven’t found.’
As she sat down, he opened the file and took out some documents to show her.
‘This is Ainara Martínez-Bayón’s birth certificate. She was born in Elizondo on 12 March 1979, but it was a home birth, so that could be inaccurate. There’s the name of the house “Argi Beltz”, Orabidea, signed by Dr Hidalgo. Now for the part I don’t have: the death certificate – most likely because there isn’t one. And this is where they may have shot themselves in the foot. If they’d said they were travelling in India, for example, we probably couldn’t do much, but in England thirty years ago, they were already computerising data. There’s no record of Ainara’s death that year in any British hospital, or indeed that of any Spanish child. Also, if, as they claim, she suffered a brain haemorrhage, an autopsy would have been carried out, and there’s no evidence of that either. What’s more, according to my contact, when a Spanish citizen dies abroad, the embassy is informed immediately, and if the family doesn’t have the means to repatriate the body, then the state pays. If they had decided to bury her in the UK, there’d be a record of it. One other thing: in those days, when taking a minor abroad, a couple would have had to present a Family Book to prove the child belonged to them, and the child’s name would be included on one of their passports. I’m in the process of checking that with the passport office, but it could take a while as not all of their files have been computerised. I also went to the registry office to compare the address on the birth certificate with that in the Family Book, and there’s no mention of the girl’s death there either.’
‘When might we have the information on the passports?’
‘I’m not sure, boss. The person looking into it has my number, and has promised to call as soon as they find anything.’
She thought for a moment, then stood up with a sigh grabbing her Puffa jacket from the peg.
‘Good, then they can reach you anywhere. Come with Iriarte and me, we’re going to talk to Esparza’s wife.’
As they passed the office where Montes and Zabalza worked, she poked her head round the door. ‘Good morning. Any progress since yesterday?’
‘Yes, boss,’ said Montes. ‘Zabalza has found a link between the two couples in Arraioz and Lekaroz and the lawyers, Lejarreta & Andía, which isn’t surprising, as both have businesses that operate abroad. But so far we’ve found no connection between them and Berasategui, and I doubt we will, because, as you know, that type of relationship is confidential. You’re more likely to find something out from your friend the priest.’
‘Maybe I’ll ask him,’ she replied, ‘but not today.’
The same gravel that had betrayed Esparza’s presence on that ill-fated night crunched beneath their tyres as they parked outside the farmhouse.
Inés Ballarena was standing in the doorway waiting for them; she had on a knitted hat and a thick overcoat against the cold, and although she was unable to smile, she politely ushered them in. Amaia motioned to Iriarte and Etxaide to follow her, making her excuses and heading around the side of the house, to where she had seen the old amatxi. Greeting her as she approached, Amaia saw the woman smile, a knowing look on her face.
‘I see you’ve come back for more. Perhaps you’ve begun to understand, perhaps you’ve begun to realise that this old woman might be right.’
‘I’ve always believed you were right,’ declared Amaia.
‘Then stop looking for killers made of flesh and blood.’
‘Should I be looking for Inguma?’
‘You needn’t look for Inguma, Inguma will find you, probably already has …’
Amaia shuddered at the memory of Rosario leaning over her bed, of her mouth drawing closer.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, smiling.
‘Just an ignorant old woman.’
The young mother’s appearance made a shocking impression. Dressed from head to toe in black, she was clutching a paper napkin like a wilted flower in her lap. Her eyes were red and her pale face, devoid of make-up, was covered in blotches, tiny burst blood vessels, from all her weeping. Her grief having entered a calm phase, she seemed to float amid whispered words and delicate gestures.
‘We’re very grateful to you for agreeing to talk to us today. We realise that it’s your daughter’s funeral this afternoon,’ said Iriarte.
If the young woman heard him, she didn’t show it. She continued to
stare into space with a mournful expression of silent grief.
‘Sonia, my dear,’ her mother said softly.
The young woman looked up.
Amaia had joined them and sat facing her.
‘In order to understand what happened, there are things we need to know, things only you can help us with, because you know your husband better than anyone.’ Sonia nodded. ‘Valentín seems like a man interested in money and appearances. You own a beautiful house, which is beyond your means – your mother tells us she helps you with the mortgage – and yet it seems Valentín was planning to buy a luxury car. During our search of the property, we found several catalogues, and the local showroom has confirmed this.’
‘He’s always been very ambitious; he always wants more, he’s never satisfied. I’ve quarrelled with my mother and amatxi over it in the past.’
‘A year ago,’ Inés broke in, ‘he tried to persuade us to remortgage our farm to lend him the money for a new house. Naturally, I refused. I’ve nothing against people wishing to better themselves, but not at any price, like Valentín. It’s not good enough, and I told him so.’
Amaia addressed the young woman again.
‘Sonia, I want you to think carefully. Have you noticed any changes in Valentín’s behaviour recently?’
‘Yes, lots, but nothing bad, in fact, even Ama and Amatxi started to see him in a better light. It all began when I got pregnant. I was told I had a high risk of miscarrying and needed complete bed rest. During all that time, Valentín was patient with me in a way I would never have expected. He read books about pregnancy, became interested in everything traditional, everything to do with Baztán, our roots, the region. He talked about the importance of being aware of the power of this earth, and became obsessed with eating food grown organically in the valley, he even suggested a home birth. I wasn’t keen on the idea, I was afraid of the pain, but he insisted … On one occasion, he brought a local midwife here.’
Amaia gave a start.
‘Do you remember her name?’
‘Josefina, Rufina – something like that.’
‘Fina?’
‘Yes, that’s right, Fina Hidalgo, an attractive older woman. She told me she’d attended hundreds of deliveries, and explained the procedure for a home birth. I felt reassured. But, well, in the end I went into labour in the seventh month, and my baby was born prematurely, in hospital, of course.’
‘We understand you quarrelled with your husband at the funeral parlour. He says it was because he wanted your daughter to have a traditional burial, whereas you insisted on cremation.’
She shook her head.
‘That wasn’t the reason. Yes, to begin with, but look, in the end we’re burying her, because that’s what Amatxi wants. The argument in the mortuary started over that. He was so insistent, it seemed so important to him that I was on the verge of giving in, when he said something … something terrible, which I’ll never forgive him for, because only a man who didn’t love his child could say such a thing, a cruel, heartless person who replaces people like they were objects …’
She started to weep, as if a floodgate had opened in that dark, humid place of tears and despair.
Inés embraced the girl, who buried her face in her mother’s neck. After a minute or two, the girl sat up straight and looked at them, the red patches on her pale face angrier than before.
‘He said not to worry, he’d make me pregnant again, and in nine months I’d have another child to replace my baby girl. I screamed at him, I said I didn’t want another child, that my little girl was irreplaceable! How could he say such a terrible thing? I couldn’t possibly think about having another child, least of all to fill the space left by my little girl.’ She looked straight at Amaia. ‘You have a child yourself, you know what I’m talking about. Perhaps I will be a mother again one day, but what he was suggesting was so abhorrent to me, the way he treated our daughter like an object, the very thought of having another child disgusted me. And as he spoke, I realised that if I did have another child to substitute the one I lost, I wouldn’t be able to love it, not in the same way, I might even grow to hate it.’
‘Just one more question. Have you or Valentín ever had dealings with a psychiatrist at the University Hospital by the name of Berasategui, or with a legal firm in Pamplona called Lejarreta & Andía?’
‘This is the first time I’ve heard those names.’
They took their leave, and Inés Ballarena walked them out to the car. As they drove off, Amaia glimpsed her in the rear-view mirror standing motionless on the same spot.
Jonan looked puzzled.
‘I haven’t seen a woman that young dressed in black for a long time.’
‘You need to get out more on a Saturday night,’ quipped Iriarte.
‘I don’t mean wearing black clothes. I think there’s a big difference, but maybe for most people it’s too subtle to notice. I can always tell when someone’s wearing black or someone’s dressed in mourning,’ explained Etxaide.
‘She’s suffered a great deal,’ said Amaia, ‘and I think she’ll suffer a lot more. What her husband said to her was dreadful. Jonan, when we get back, call the prison and arrange a meeting for me with Esparza. I want to talk to him again, as soon as possible.’
‘The case is closed,’ said Iriarte. ‘We know Esparza killed his daughter.’
‘I think there’s a lot more to this case than meets the eye.’
‘We have the culprit. It isn’t our job to understand why he did what he did.’
‘Not why, but to what ends, Inspector. Esparza told us that he gave her up, he gave up his daughter’s life. I want to know to what ends.’
Iriarte shook his head sceptically as he joined the main road.
‘To the police station, then?’
‘Not yet. I hope your phones have good cameras: we’re going to Irurita to take some pictures,’ she replied.
With its long balcony, picture windows and Victorian greenhouse, Fina Hidalgo’s stone house was a splendid sight. A flagstone path led from the main door to the heavy iron gate, painted black and left temptingly ajar, not so much to invite visitors to enter as to allow passers-by to gaze with envy at her beautiful borders. Amaia rang the bell and waited, watching with amusement the delight on her colleagues’ faces as they contemplated the pretty garden.
Nurse Fina Hidalgo emerged from the greenhouse where she had received Amaia on her last visit. She wore a pair of close-fitting jeans, a loose shirt of the same material, and her hair was swept back with a hairband; she had on gardening gloves and was holding a small pair of secateurs in one hand. Her expression hardened when she saw them.
‘Who gave you permission to come on to my property?’
‘Navarre police,’ said Amaia, flashing her badge, even though she knew perfectly well that Fina had recognised her. ‘The gate was open, and we tried the doorbell.’
‘What do you want?’ Fina demanded, keeping her distance.
‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.’
‘Ask away,’ she replied boldly.
‘We’re investigating the death of a baby girl in the valley about thirty years ago. We know that you and your brother attended the delivery, because he signed the birth certificate. We’d be obliged if you could tell us whether he also signed the death certificate.’
‘Well, to me that sounds more like a request than a question. Was there something else?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact. I’d like to ask you about your relationship with Valentín Esparza. Also, I have a list of couples whose babies died soon after they were born, and I’m wondering whether you were the midwife who assisted those families post-partum,’ Amaia said, edging back towards the gate. As she’d hoped, this prompted the woman to follow her.
‘You’ll have to get a search warrant for the certificate,’ Fina declared, emboldened, as she pursued Amaia down the path. ‘As for the other questions, you can get in touch with my lawyers. I have no intention of talking to you.�
��
Amaia had reached the pavement.
‘Your lawyers … let me guess: Lejarreta & Andía, am I right?’
The woman smiled, showing her gums, as she strode forward.
‘Yes, and you can be sure that by the time they’ve finished with you, you’ll be laughing on the other side of your face.’
‘Now,’ Amaia commanded, as Etxaide and Iriarte took several photographs of the woman.
‘It’s illegal to take pictures of me on my own property!’ she shouted.
‘Technically, you aren’t on your own property,’ Amaia grinned, pointing down at the woman’s feet, which were touching the pavement.
‘You fucking bitch! I’ll make you pay for this, you’ll be sorry,’ she screamed, retreating towards the house.
Still with a grin on her face, Amaia motioned towards the vehicle parked opposite.
‘One more question: is that your car? Etxaide, take some photographs, will you – it’s parked on a public road.’
The woman’s screams were broken off by the door slamming behind her.
21
As she manoeuvred her car round the hairpin bends on the Orabidea road, Amaia was feeling more optimistic than she had in days. At long last, she had the sense she was getting somewhere.
After their visit to Fina Hidalgo, she had sent Etxaide and Iriarte back to the station. She wanted to pay another visit to the farmhouse next door to Argi Beltz, and preferred to go alone. The woman had been so helpful, she didn’t want to risk changing the nature of the relationship she had established with her by showing up with two fellow officers in tow.
Offering to the Storm Page 14