Offering to the Storm

by Dolores Redondo

  ‘When I was twelve years old, my mother got pregnant. As my parents were no longer in the flush of youth, I imagine it was unplanned. Even so, they were delighted, I don’t think I had ever seen them so happy as when my brother was born. He was three weeks old when it happened. My mother gave him his morning feed, changed his nappy and put him back in his cot. Around midday, we heard her screaming. I remember my father and I running upstairs to find her leaning over my brother’s cot, giving him the kiss of life, when even I could see that he was dead. I remember my father prising her away from his body, trying to persuade her that it was no good, while I looked on in horror, not knowing what to do.

  ‘Sometimes I think I can still hear her screams, the terrible howls rising from her throat, like the cries of a wounded animal … This went on for hours. Then the silence came, and that was even worse. She stopped speaking, except to ask where her baby was. We no longer existed for her, she never spoke to me or to my father again, she never touched me. A healthy baby’s death from natural causes is impossible to bear. She convinced herself that she was to blame, that she’d been a bad mother. She tried to take her own life, and was admitted to a mental hospital. Her grief, her feelings of guilt and the incomprehensible nature of her child’s death drove her insane. She forgot she had a husband, she forgot she had another son, and she shut herself away with her grief.’

  Amaia came to a halt. He walked on a few paces then stopped. She drew level, turning to look at him. She saw his eyes, brimming with tears, as for the first time he looked away, allowing her to study him up close. She liked seeing him like this. Seeing the man behind that mask of perfect masculinity. She had an instinctive dislike of perfection, and now she realised that was what bothered her about him: his beauty, elegance and polished exterior. She could appreciate those qualities individually in any person, but the perfect phrase and the perfect smile always made her suspicious. She realised now that, like her, Markina had made sure he was in complete control of his life in an effort to banish the pain and humiliation of having been rejected by the person who was supposed to love you, abandoned by the one person who was supposed to protect you. It pleased her to know that, beneath that perfect physique raged a furnace with which Markina had forged his ideal life, a life in which nothing escaped his control. Amaia derived an intense satisfaction from discovering the strict codes of conduct people like Markina applied to their lives, but above all to themselves. She may have agreed more or less with his views, but when you had to fight side by side with someone, it helped to know that they were honourable, that they wouldn’t betray you.

  He gave her an apologetic look.

  ‘I wouldn’t be shocked by any response in someone who loses a child like that,’ he resumed. ‘Describe to me the most insane behaviour of a couple in the throes of grief, and I’ll believe you. I refuse to open graves only to unleash a torrent of suffering. Unless you bring me a witness who actually saw someone kill their child, or a statement from the pathologist who carried out these autopsies, retracting their original findings and presenting fresh evidence, I refuse to authorise any exhumation of a child’s body.’

  Amaia nodded. She was no longer able to contain her curiosity.

  ‘What happened to your mother?’

  He looked away, towards the row of orange lights standing like sentinels along the avenue.

  ‘She died two years later, in the asylum. A month after that, my father also died.’

  She stretched out her gloved hand until it was touching his. Later on, she would ask herself why she had done that. Touching someone opens a path that can be navigated in both directions. She felt the heat of his hand through her leather glove, like an electric current shooting through her. He slid his gaze from the lights back to her, as he clasped her hand tightly, guiding it to his lips. He held it there long enough to plant a tender kiss on her fingertips that penetrated her glove, her skin, her bones, spreading like a shockwave through her nervous system. When he let go, it was she who resumed walking unsettled, confused, determined not to look at him, the imprint of his lips still burning on her hand as if she’d been kissed by a devil. Or an angel.

  Deputy Inspector Etxaide had changed his overcoat for a grey Puffa jacket with a hood, which he was glad of as he paced up and down the street until he saw them leave the bar. He maintained a discreet distance as he followed them through the city centre. Things got complicated when they crossed over the road to the Congress Centre, because the esplanade offered no cover, and even wearing a jacket she’d never seen him in, she might still recognise him and he couldn’t take that risk. A group of youths heading in the same direction offered the perfect solution. Without losing sight of Amaia and Markina, he shadowed the kids, pretending to be part of the group, until they reached the stairs to the building, where, oblivious to the cold, they sat down to chat. Etxaide mounted the steps, feigning interest in the notices announcing forthcoming conferences and exhibitions. The couple had turned towards the avenue. They were walking very close together. He could hear them talking, but not what they were saying, and he noticed their hands touch briefly. Their body language betrayed an intimacy between them that excluded everything else, which was perhaps why they didn’t see him there, watching their every move.

  Her car was parked three blocks away. Amaia walked in silence, aware of Markina’s presence beside her, but lacking the courage to turn and look at him. Although she regretted the boldness that had compelled her to touch him, at the same time she felt secretly joined to him by the most anomalous part of her life: both had been rejected by their mothers. She had become the focus of Rosario’s hatred, while in Markina’s case, a grieving mother had selfishly abandoned her living son in favour of her dead son. She thought of Ibai, and felt strangely close to that woman, for if anything ever happened to him, the world would end. Would her love for James, Ros, or Aunt Engrasi be enough to keep her going? What if Ibai were her eldest child and she lost another? Could she love another child more than she loved Ibai? Could a mother love one child more than another? The answer was yes. It was a well-known fact among behaviourists, and although for centuries people kept up the deception, the fact was that parents loved each child in a different way, they brought each child up in a different way, with different rules. But was it possible to hate one child among others, single him or her out for that dubious honour? Was it possible to hate one of your children to the point of killing them while caring for and protecting the others? Even the most deranged killers followed a pattern, which often only made sense to them; an abnormal pattern, whose twisted logic the investigator must try to comprehend. Amaia was sure that her mother’s behaviour wasn’t controlled by evil voices in her head, or the result of some abnormality in the structure of her brain, but rather an obscure yet powerful motive that dictated her behaviour towards Amaia and her twin sister, while sparing Flora and Ros.

  She wondered how Markina had coped, if indeed he had, and to what extent he had been scarred by losing his entire family in such a short space of time, being plunged from a happy, almost idyllic setting into the most unmitigated personal tragedy. Afterwards, his fortunes had improved; at least he’d been able to concentrate on his studies, a career … Although she didn’t know how old he was, she’d heard he was the youngest magistrate on the circuit.

  Spotting her car, she turned to tell him they’d arrived, only to find him smiling.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ she asked.

  ‘I feel better, having confided in you. I’ve never told that to anyone.’

  ‘Have you no other relatives?’

  ‘Both my parents were only children.’ He shrugged. ‘On the bright side, I’m a wealthy man,’ he joked.

  She opened the car door, took off her coat and threw it on the passenger seat. Then she hurriedly got in and switched on the ignition, as she tried to think of a businesslike way of saying goodbye.

  ‘So, can I count on getting a warrant to look through Dr Hidalgo’s files?’

  Markin
a leaned inside the car, looked at her and smiled.

  ‘I’m going to kiss you, Inspector Salazar.’

  She froze, scarcely able to control her nerves, hands clasped together as he drew near. She closed her eyes as she felt his lips, concentrating on the kiss in her dream, a kiss she’d been yearning for ever since she met him, desiring, coveting almost, his soft, sensual mouth, and yet hoping beyond hope to feel the dreary disappointment that often follows when you get what you want. The reality behind the fantasy.

  The kiss he planted with exquisite delicacy on the corner of her mouth was short and sweet, lingering just enough to break down her defences. Her lips parted. Then, he properly kissed her.

  When he drew away, he was smiling in that inimical way.

  ‘You shouldn’t …’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ he finished her sentence. ‘Maybe not, but I thought I should. Thanks for listening.’

  ‘How did you manage to get over it?’ she asked, genuinely intrigued. ‘How did you get on with your life without letting it affect you?’

  ‘By accepting that she was ill, that she lost her mind and wasn’t responsible for her own actions, that she suffered more than anyone because of them. If you’re asking whether I always saw things that way, then the answer is no, of course not, but one day I decided to forgive her, to forgive my father, and my baby brother, to forgive myself. You should try it.’

  She gave a forced smile.

  ‘Can I count on the search warrant?’

  ‘You won’t give up, will you? If I refuse to give you an exhumation order you’ll search people’s files, and if you find nothing there, you’ll look somewhere else, but you’ll never give up. You’re a true detective.’

  She accepted his criticism, gripping the steering wheel as she sat up straight in her seat. Her face radiated determination.

  ‘You’re right, I’ll never give up. I respect your reasons for refusing the exhumation order at this point, but I’ll bring you what you want. I doubt I’ll be able to persuade the pathologist to admit she made a mistake in her autopsy reports; I can’t expect someone to commit professional suicide without any hard evidence, evidence which in this case happens to be six feet underground. However, if my witnesses stop dying on me, I may be able to obtain a statement from one of the parents; it’s unlikely all the couples were equally committed. I interviewed Esparza’s wife today, and although she didn’t see him kill the girl, her testimony was damning. I’ll get those statements, I’ll bring you what you want, and you’ll have no choice but to give me that order.’ His expression clouded. Realising her tone had hardened, she grinned, and said laughingly: ‘Now, move aside, your honour, I’m closing the door.’

  Easing the door closed, he stepped back on to the pavement. He stood for a long time watching after she had merged with the traffic.

  22

  While she drove, she ran through her plans for the following day, trying hard to rid herself of the warm impression of Markina’s kiss, etched perfectly on her lips. She would pay Fina Hidalgo an early visit, drag that witch out of bed if necessary, force her to watch as she examined every birth certificate, every death certificate. Obtaining the warrant was only a partial victory, but she had to start somewhere, and the doctor’s files were a good enough place. She might not find enough evidence to convince Markina, but if she could establish the connection she was certain must exist between Fina Hidalgo and those families, it would be a step in the right direction. She would interview them separately, find the weakest link and put the screws on until she got a confession.

  Then she remembered something, an idea she couldn’t quite define, which had come to her while she was bargaining with Markina. Something that seemed important enough at the time to make her think she mustn’t forget it. And yet she had, and the feeling that it could be crucial grew stronger every minute, as she tried desperately to remember precisely when in the conversation it had occurred. The lightning bolt, as Dupree referred to it, a spectacular electrical discharge whose depth of insight could fry your brain, a spark originating somewhere in the nervous system, capable of illuminating in a millisecond the dark areas, a spark brimming with information that might hold the key to a case, if you paid attention.

  It was close to midnight when she arrived in Elizondo. Driving down the deserted Calle Santiago, she crossed the bridge, turned right then left after Hostal Trinkete and stopped off at Juanitaenea. The vegetable garden, abandoned after Yáñez’s arrest, was starting to show signs of neglect. She noticed that some of the plant poles had fallen over, and in the dim light from the streetlamp she could see that the area nearest the road was overgrown with weeds. Illuminated only by a crescent moon, the house itself had a vaguely sinister quality, added to by the cement bricks, piled untidily on pallets outside the entrance.

  Engrasi was sitting by the fire watching television. Amaia went over to her, rubbing her cold hands together.

  ‘Hello, Auntie, where is everyone?’

  ‘Hello, my dear. Goodness, you’re freezing!’ she said, clasping Amaia’s hands as she leaned over to kiss her. ‘Sit down and warm yourself. Your sister has gone to bed, and James took Ibai up a while ago, and he hasn’t come down again so I suppose he must have fallen asleep …’

  ‘I’ll go up and see them, I’ll only be a minute,’ she said, ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘Haven’t you had supper?’ I’ll rustle something up.’

  ‘No, please don’t, Auntie. I can make myself a snack when I come back down,’ she said as she started up the stairs, although she could already see Engrasi heading into the kitchen.

  Engrasi was right. James had fallen asleep next to Ibai. Seeing them together like that, she felt a pang of remorse about Judge Markina’s kiss. ‘It means nothing,’ she told herself, pushing it from her thoughts.

  James opened his eyes and smiled, as if he’d sensed her presence.

  ‘And what time of night is this to be arriving home, missy?’

  ‘You sound like Aunt Engrasi,’ she replied, stooping to kiss Ibai first, then James.

  ‘Get into bed with us,’ James pleaded.

  ‘First I need to eat something. I won’t be long.’

  As she was leaving the room, she turned to look at him.

  ‘James, I just drove past Juanitaenea, and the building work seems to be at a standstill …’

  ‘I don’t have the energy to oversee the project right now, Amaia,’ he said, looking pointedly at her. ‘I have too many other things to worry about. Maybe when we get back from the States. Have you booked your leave yet?’

  She hadn’t. No way was she going to take time off work; her instincts told her she was close to finding an important lead, and this wasn’t the right time to break off the investigation. But she also knew that she was taking a gamble; James was an exceptionally patient man, and thus far in the relationship she had always got her own way, but recently he had started to hint that this might change.

  ‘Yes,’ she lied. ‘But they haven’t got back to me yet – you know how it is …’

  James took off his trousers and climbed back into bed without looking at her.

  ‘Don’t be long.’

  Amaia closed the door behind her, unsure whether he was referring to her coming to bed or getting time off work to make the trip.

  A steaming bowl of fish soup was waiting for her on the table. As an accompaniment, Engrasi had put out a chunk of bread and a glass of red wine. Amaia ate her soup in silence; only when her spoon was scraping the bowl did she realise how fast she had eaten it. She looked up at her aunt, who hadn’t taken her eyes off her.

  ‘You really were hungry. Do you want anything else?’

  ‘Only to talk to you. There’s something I have to tell you …’

  Engrasi pushed the bowl aside, stretching her hands across the table in a gesture they had shared since she was a child, and which she claimed eased communication and openness. Amaia seized her aunt’s hands, conscious of how incredibly
small and soft they were.

  ‘I’m still in touch with Dupree.’

  ‘I knew it,’ Engrasi hissed, snatching her hands away.

  Amaia gave a mocking laugh.

  ‘Don’t fib. How could you possibly have known?’

  ‘Watch your tongue, young lady; there’s nothing your aunt doesn’t know.’

  ‘Auntie, you need to understand that Dupree is important to me. His advice and guidance have helped me in my investigations. I’m not stupid, Auntie, I can tell the good guys from the bad guys, and Dupree is a good guy. He’s my friend, but I also love you. I need you both. I’m going to keep calling him, and I don’t want to have to lie to you about it unless you give me a very good reason to do so.’

  Engrasi looked at her for what seemed like an eternity. Then she stood up, went over to the sideboard and came back carrying the small black silk bundle containing her tarot cards.

  ‘Oh no, Auntie!’ Amaia protested.

  ‘We each have our methods. If you accept his, then you must accept also mine.’

  With nimble fingers, she removed the wrapping to reveal the brightly coloured cards, which gave off a musky aroma. She shuffled the pack and placed it on the table for Amaia to cut. Then, carefully, she made Amaia choose twelve cards, which she turned over, arranging them in a circle. She contemplated them for a while; the connecting lines which only she could see. Then she said:

  ‘I’m not sure I can do this any more.’

  Amaia gave a start. This was the first time she’d heard her aunt admit that she couldn’t do something. She looked as healthy and full of life as ever, but the fact that she would say that about something she’d been doing all her life, something she had an innate talent for, alarmed Amai.

  ‘Auntie, are you feeling all right? Do you want to leave this for another time? It’s not important. If you’re tired we could—’