Offering to the Storm

by Dolores Redondo

  As she drove up a steep hill, she glanced with irritation at her phone, which kept losing coverage. She’d received three calls, but each time she answered, the line went dead. She drove at speed to the highest point, looked for a place where she could pull over, and dialled Etxaide’s number.

  ‘Boss, you’re not going to believe this: a few hours ago, Esparza was stabbed by another inmate. They’ve rushed him to hospital, but they don’t think he’s going to make it.’

  The familiar reek of disinfectant, the green lines on the floor, and the inexplicably draughty corridors greeted them as they entered the ICU. They had been allocated a room so that one of the consultants could give them a medical report. Inside were the prison governor, two uniformed guards, two young doctors, possibly interns, two nurses and finally Dr Martínez-Larrea. With the addition of her and Jonan, the room felt ridiculously cramped.

  Dr Martínez-Larrea and Amaia were old acquaintances. He was an arrogant chauvinist, who seemed to think that male doctors belonged to a superior species that had jumped up a rung on the evolutionary ladder. They had clashed about a year ago when she was working on the basajaun case. She shot him a fierce look as she walked in, secretly pleased to see him lower his eyes. From then on, he addressed his comments to her, catching her eye only fleetingly.

  ‘The patient, Valentín Esparza, was admitted to this hospital at twelve forty-five this afternoon having sustained a dozen serious wounds to the stomach caused by a long, sharp object. The skin was broken in several places, rupturing some of his internal organs and main arteries. He was taken straight into surgery, where we attempted to staunch the internal bleeding, but his injuries proved fatal. Valentín Esparza was pronounced dead at ten past one.’ He folded the sheet of paper from which he had been reading, muttered an apology, then left the room, followed by his entourage of medical staff.

  ‘I’d like a word with you,’ Amaia told the prison governor, ignoring his pale, harried expression.

  ‘Perhaps later,’ he suggested. ‘I need to inform his relatives, the magistrate—’

  ‘Now,’ she insisted, then turned to the others: ‘Gentlemen, if you wouldn’t mind leaving us for a moment.’

  As soon as they were alone, the governor slumped in a chair, visibly intimidated. She stood directly in front of him.

  ‘Explain to me what the hell is going on in your prison. How is it possible that in the last month three inmates have died on your watch, all of whom were involved in cases I’m working on – two in the last week alone?’ He didn’t reply, burying his face in his hands. ‘The suicides – Dr Berasategui and Garrido – I can understand, to a degree; if someone is determined to kill themselves, it must be difficult to stop them. But what I find inexplicable – and I’m sure any layperson would agree with me – is that you could allow a suspected child-killer to mix with other inmates. You sentenced him to death, and I’m going to make sure you’re held responsible.’

  The man appeared to react; he lowered his hands from his face, clasping them in front of her imploringly.

  ‘Of course he wasn’t allowed to mix with the other inmates – I’m not that stupid. We put in place the strictest security protocols as soon as he arrived. He was on suicide watch in a separate cell, with twenty-four-hour surveillance. We gave him a cellmate, a mild-mannered fellow, who was in for embezzlement – he had one month left to serve.’

  ‘So, how did this happen? Who had access to him? Who killed him?’

  ‘I swear to you, I don’t understand … It was him, the reliable cellmate – he stabbed Esparza with a sharpened toothbrush handle.’

  Amaia sat down in the chair facing him, silently contemplating the governor, who appeared genuinely distraught. She wondered how everything could be going to shit, about the now glaringly obvious ‘coincidence’ that all the people involved in this ‘non-case’ – for it could hardly be considered a proper investigation – kept ending up dead. After a few minutes, she stood up and walked out, tired of watching the governor’s snivelling.

  It was cold in Pamplona, and the ground was still wet where it had rained earlier. The skies were clear now, although the sun hadn’t come out, only a bright light that dazzled the eyes. As they walked to the car, Amaia explained to Jonan how Esparza had died, her breath forming into wisps about her face. If the temperature continued to plummet and the rain stayed away, the ground might freeze overnight. Jonan’s phone rang. He took the call, raising his free hand as if to silence her while he listened to what the person at the other end of the line was saying.

  ‘That was the call we were waiting for,’ he told her when he’d finished. ‘From the passport office. It seems they did travel to the UK on those dates …’

  She gave a frown.

  ‘… But no child was included on either of their passports, and my contact assures me they couldn’t possibly have taken her out of the country without the correct paperwork.’

  ‘It was so long ago they could blame it on an administrative error, and we’d have no way of proving it.’

  ‘There’s something else; they spent a weekend there; I don’t see how the girl could have died of a brain haemorrhage, been given an autopsy and buried, all within forty-eight hours.’

  ‘What do you think, Jonan?’

  ‘I think they travelled to the UK without the girl, simply to give themselves an alibi, a convincing explanation they could use if anyone asked about her. I don’t think she ever made it to London.’

  Amaia stood motionless, staring silently at Deputy Inspector Etxaide as she considered his theory.

  ‘What do we do now?’ he asked.

  ‘You go home, I’m going to talk to Judge Markina.’

  It was too early to have dinner, so on this occasion Markina had suggested they meet in a quiet taverna decorated with paraphernalia from a nineteenth-century apothecary, soft lighting, plenty of comfy chairs and music that didn’t require you to shout. Amaia felt grateful for the inviting warmth of the place as she slipped off her coat.

  Markina was sitting alone at the far end of the room, staring into space, pensive. He was dressed formally in a dark suit, waistcoat and tie. Amaia walked slowly from the bar to the table; she didn’t often get the chance to observe him without having to confront his gaze. His languorous demeanour gave him the air of an English romantic, elegant even in repose, with a sensuality she found irresistibly attractive. She sighed, and, in a private act of contrition, resolved to focus solely on putting across her case, on winning his support, for without it she would be incapable of advancing further into that labyrinth where every step she took, every new trail she followed was being silenced by the most persuasive of arguments. Death.

  He smiled when he saw her, rising to pull out a chair for her.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ she said.

  ‘When are you going to start using the informal tu with me?’

  ‘I’m here about work.’

  He smiled. ‘As you wish, Inspector Salazar.’

  A waiter brought over two glasses of wine and placed them on the table.

  ‘I imagine it must be something important if you asked to see me.’

  ‘You heard about Esparza’s death …’

  ‘Yes, of course. I received a call from the courthouse. I spoke to the governor on the phone, and he explained everything to me. It’s unfortunate, but these things happen. Child killers have a hard time in prison.’

  ‘Yes, except that his assailant had no previous convictions for violence and was about to be released.’

  ‘As I’m sure you know, the rules that operate in a prison are very different from those on the outside. In my experience, the kind of behaviour and responses that appear rational to us don’t apply in there. The fact that his assailant wasn’t a murderer doesn’t mean much. The pressure exerted on a prisoner by fellow inmates can make him behave in ways he would never have contemplated in the outside world.’

  She heard him out in silence.

  ‘However, I don’t suppose yo
u came here to talk about a dead prisoner, did you, Inspector Salazar?’

  ‘Not only because he’s dead, but because of what he told me when he was alive, as well as a few other things we’ve dug up in the course of our inquiries. Esparza was obsessed with money, to the point of nearly falling out with his wife’s family. There’s no question that he killed his daughter, but when I asked him about it, he said something very strange. He insisted he had given her up, “like all the other sacrifices”. He told me that he took her body because he needed to finish something. I believe that Esparza was convinced he had to carry out some sort of ritual involving his daughter’s body, an important ritual. He told his wife they could have another child to replace the dead girl, and that their fortunes would improve from now on. Yesterday, I requested an interview with him. And today he is dead.’

  Markina gestured for her to continue.

  ‘And then there’s Dr Berasategui. The reason I visited him in prison was to ask where he and Rosario went between leaving the clinic and attacking my aunt and kidnapping my son. You remember the storm that night. I’m convinced they took shelter somewhere; we’ve established that he didn’t go to his father’s house, so maybe to a farmhouse, or a shepherd’s hut … But now Berasategui is dead too, so he can’t answer any more questions either.’

  Markina nodded again, listening intently.

  ‘Rosario was a member of a sect, established in Baztán in the late seventies, early eighties. A pseudo-Satanist group that performed animal sacrifices, and even went as far as to propose human sacrifices of newborns or young infants. Apparently, these cults believe that children under the age of two are in transit between two worlds, and therefore better suited to their aims. That brings us to Elena Ochoa, the woman who died the day before yesterday in Elizondo. Elena was an old friend of my mother, Rosario. They attended meetings together, until Elena could no longer tolerate the savagery of their rituals, and she left. Elena told me where the farmhouse was, and I went to see it out of curiosity. The owners are founding members of the original sect, and they live in the house, which has been improved beyond recognition. They also had a daughter, Ainara, who died aged fourteen months, according to them, during a trip to the UK. We’ve checked their story, and have found no trace of any death certificate, no record of any admission to hospital, no proof the child ever travelled there: she wasn’t included on either of the parents’ passports, even though it was obligatory at the time when taking a child out of the country. We also have a witness who has positively identified Berasategui’s car as having been parked outside the property on more than one occasion. The couple admitted knowing him, but when I asked about the nature of their relationship, they referred me to their lawyers, a wealthy couple with a practice in Pamplona.

  ‘At the same time, we’ve been looking into all cases of infants under the age of two who have died of SIDS in the last five years in this region. After ruling out male children, we found three cases of interest. What caught our attention wasn’t the cause of death – which seemed straightforward – but the parents’ behaviour. This was every bit as suspicious as my mother’s behaviour, and indeed social services were called in to monitor the couples who had other children. All three couples, along with my mother, are linked to that house, that cult, and one of them happens to have a law practice in Pamplona.’

  ‘Well, Berasategui had no children,’ protested Markina.

  ‘No,’ she conceded.

  ‘Did social services highlight any cause for concern in their reports?’

  ‘No,’ she replied, irritated.

  ‘Have you established a direct link between all these families?’

  ‘Possibly a retired nurse, a midwife who may have assisted at all the births.’

  ‘Retired? How long for? The Esparza girl was born four months ago in Virgen del Camino Hospital. Was she working there then?’

  ‘No, she’s a freelance midwife. Her name is Fina Hidalgo. Her brother was Dr Hidalgo, GP to my family and many others in the valley. She was his assistant for years. As was the custom in those days, my sisters and I were born at home. She told me herself that after her brother died she worked in various hospitals, and that although she’s retired she still practices independently as a midwife. The Esparzas didn’t meet her at the hospital. Valentín brought her to their house to try to convince his wife to have a home birth.’

  Markina gave a sceptical look, indicating the flimsiness of her argument. She redoubled her efforts.

  ‘There are several reasons to suspect Fina Hidalgo’s involvement: she attended my mother on the day I was born and my twin sister died; her brother signed my sister’s death certificate; she tried to assist at the birth of Esparza’s little girl, and I suspect that she delivered those other babies.’

  ‘You suspect – so you aren’t certain?’

  ‘No,’ she confessed. ‘To be certain, I’d need to search Dr Hidalgo’s private files for the children’s death certificates.’

  ‘You’re suggesting that Fina Hidalgo is an angel of death.’

  Amaia reflected. Angels of death are characterised by the belief that they are carrying out an important humanitarian role by murdering their fellow men. They often work in the medical profession, or in old people’s homes, caring for the sick and the elderly, or those with mental or physical disabilities. They are frequently women. Because they choose victims who are physically frail, and whose deaths arouse little suspicion, they are difficult to detect. They rarely stop killing, because they are convinced of the legitimacy of their actions, and there is no end to their potential victims. They claim to be motivated purely by compassion, and are often extremely kind and thoughtful towards people who are suffering.

  ‘During a conversation I had with her, she admitted that sometimes when a baby was born sick or deformed, it was necessary to help the parents rid themselves of the burden of bringing up such a child.’

  ‘Was anyone else present during that conversation?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She will doubtless deny it, as will the couples concerned.’

  ‘Those were her words.’

  Markina remained thoughtful for a few seconds. He wrote something down in his diary and looked once more at Amaia.

  ‘Besides a search warrant, what else do you need?’

  ‘If we find the death certificates among Dr Hidalgo’s papers, we’ll need an exhumation order.’

  Markina sat up in his chair, frowning at her.

  ‘Whatever for? The Esparza girl was buried today.’

  ‘To exhume the bodies of those little girls whose parents appeared to rejoice over their deaths, the daughters of the couples I just mentioned to you.’

  ‘I’ll give you the warrant to search Dr Hidalgo’s private files, but you must understand the seriousness of what you are asking. You’ll need to show me irrefutable proof that those little girls were murdered if I’m to let you disturb their graves. Exhumations are complicated affairs because of the distress and pain they cause the relatives. Any magistrate would think long and hard about authorising an exhumation, especially that of a child, and you’re asking me to dig up three. We’d be under intense pressure from the media, and unless we were absolutely certain of what we were going to find, we’d risk upsetting an awful lot of people.’

  ‘If we have good reason to suspect that a single one of those children was murdered, any action is justified,’ she retorted.

  Markina looked at her, impressed by her vehemence, and yet he remained firm. She made to protest, but he held up a hand.

  ‘For the moment, there’s nothing to back us up. You say that social services found no evidence of abuse, and that the autopsy reports suggest death by natural causes. The behaviour of the midwife strikes me as suspicious, but there’s no direct link between all these people. The fact that some of them are acquainted, or connected with a particular law firm, is like saying that there are six degrees of separation between us and the president of the United States. You need to
bring me something more solid. However, I should warn you that ordering the exhumation of babies is deeply repugnant to me, and I’ll do everything in my power to avoid it.’ Markina seemed visibly affected. His habitually relaxed expression betrayed a mixture of anger and concern that gave his face new depths, a hint of maturity and engagement she hadn’t seen until now, and which, without detracting from his charm, made him appear stronger and more masculine. He rose to his feet, picking up his coat. ‘I think we should take a stroll.’

  Amaia followed him outside, at once surprised and intrigued by his attitude.

  ‘Sudden Infant Death Syndrome is one of nature’s most terrible inventions. A mother puts her child to bed, and when she goes to check on him, he is dead. I’m sure as a mother it isn’t difficult for you to imagine the horror that such a random, incomprehensible event can unleash on a family. The fear of having done something wrong, of being somehow to blame, plunges them into a waking nightmare of guilt, grief and mistrust. The suddenness with which such deaths occur produces responses that may not always appear rational; those affected suffer a form of temporary insanity, where any reaction, however incongruous, could be considered normal …’ He paused for a moment, as though reflecting on the horrific implications of what he was saying.

  Amaia didn’t have to be a behavioural expert to realise how deeply affected Markina was by the subject: it was obvious that the knowledge and subtlety of his observations about the suffering caused by this kind of loss came from first-hand experience.

  They walked for a while in silence, crossing the road to the Baluarte Congress Centre, where they strolled along the promenade. A torrent of questions jostled for position in Amaia’s head, and yet her training as an interrogator told her that if she waited, the answers would come by themselves, that asking would only make him clam up. Markina was intelligent, cultured and educated, obliged by his profession as a magistrate to give the impression of reliability, self-control and infallibility. He was probably debating with himself that very instant over whether to continue being candid or retreat to the secure vantage point of his position. Amaia noticed he had slackened his pace, just enough to avoid her gaze, each step a perfect pretext not to look her in the eye as he spoke.