The woman glanced suspiciously at Amaia’s car and then at the house, trying to make up her mind.
‘I can’t drink coffee, because of my nerves, but I’ll accompany you. You’re right about not wanting to talk here; God knows what those murderers are capable of.’
On the way to Etxebertzeko Borda, Amaia cast sidelong glances at the woman, who was perspiring heavily and reeked of stale sweat. Her hair was gathered untidily into a ponytail, from which a few lank strands hung loose. Even so, the cut of her fringe and highlights suggested she went to a professional hairdresser. The camera slung about her neck also looked expensive, as did the jewellery she wore. Her longish nails were manicured, and her rings dug unattractively into her puffy fingers. Amaia imagined that the woman had gained weight rapidly. Some people had difficulty admitting they need a larger size, or in her case two.
She parked near the restaurant, and they walked in silence towards the entrance, passing the outside tables where she and James sat in the summer, and from where you could hear the murmur of the river. As they walked through the door, a waiter emerged from the kitchen to greet them. While Amaia ordered their drinks, the woman picked out a table as far as possible from the bar area, although, after bringing their order, the waiter returned to the kitchen where they heard him join in with the chatter of female voices within.
‘What makes you think those people killed your children? Do you realise the seriousness of what you’re saying? Do you have proof? Are you aware that if you don’t, they could sue you for libel?’
The woman stared at her blankly for a few seconds without speaking. She looked puzzled, as if she hadn’t understood. Amaia was wondering what kind of medication the woman was on, when she responded vehemently:
‘When I say those people murdered my sons, I mean they are responsible for their deaths. And, yes, I realise the seriousness of what I’m saying, and of course I have proof. I didn’t see them kill my children, if that’s what you’re asking, but my husband took part in their evil rituals and gave up my babies to them. And as if that weren’t enough, they stole their bodies leaving me with an empty grave.’ The woman took out her phone to show Amaia a photograph of two babies barely three months old dressed in blue pyjamas.
‘What did they die of?’
The woman started to cry.
‘Cot death.’
‘Both of your children died of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome?’
The woman nodded, still crying.
‘Yes – the same night.’
Amaia ran through Jonan’s list in her head. She couldn’t recall a case of twins dying at the same time, and they couldn’t possibly have overlooked such a shocking coincidence.
‘Are you sure the cause of death recorded by the doctor wasn’t something else? Respiratory failure perhaps, or asphyxiation, or they might have choked on their own vomit? Those causes can sometimes be confused with cot death.’
‘My children didn’t suffocate, they didn’t choke to death, they died in their sleep.’
Despite the cool temperature in the restaurant, she was still perspiring, and her acrid breath, expelled in nervous gasps, reached Amaia from across the table. She was clearly unwell – her reference to taking medication that prevented her from driving, and not being able to drink caffeine, suggested a serious nervous disorder. Amaia lowered her eyes, recognising that she’d allowed herself to be drawn in by a woman with mental problems. It was odd that the focus of her obsession should be precisely that house and those people, but her account seemed to contradict the findings of Amaia’s inquiry. For a start, she’d lost two male children, when all the other victims had been female. And there had been no mention in the official records of twin brothers dying simultaneously.
‘I never wanted kids, you know? It was my husband who was keen on the idea. I suppose I was quite a selfish person; I’m an only child, you see. I liked travelling, skiing, enjoying life. Besides, I was getting on for thirty-six when we met. He was a bit younger, a very handsome Frenchman. Lots of people said that he’d married me for my money, but when he insisted we have kids, I really believed he wanted to start a family, so I got pregnant, and then everything changed. I never imagined I could feel such love for another human being; after all that had happened, I thought I’d be incapable of looking after them, or of loving them even. But Mother Nature is wise and she makes us love all our babies. I adored them the instant I saw them, and I took good care of them. I was a good mother from the day they were born.’
She looked at Amaia, taking her silence for scepticism. ‘You might find it hard to believe, seeing the way I am now, but I wasn’t always like this. I don’t mind admitting that when my sons died I went crazy – there’s nothing strange about that. The pain of losing them and seeing how my husband reacted was too much for me to bear.’
‘How did he react?’ Amaia broke in, immediately cursing herself for having interrupted.
‘He told me that from then on things would look up, our fortunes would improve. We built a splendid tomb, which my ex-husband smothers in flowers, but it’s as empty as his heart, because on the day of their funeral, he spirited my sons away.’
‘You said ex-husband; are you divorced?’
The woman gave a mocking laugh.
‘I couldn’t rise to the occasion. As he’d predicted, his fortunes improved after that – not that we needed more money; my family is extremely wealthy, we own mines in Almandoz. But he wanted money of his own, and a wife receiving psychiatric treatment, who had gained forty kilos, and went round telling everyone her babies’ graves had been robbed didn’t fit in with his plans. He left me, married his French whore, and now they’re expecting a baby … My sons would be three years old now.’
‘Your ex-husband lives in France?’
‘Yes, in our old house in Ainhoa. I couldn’t stay there after what happened, but he doesn’t care; he lives there with his new wife and his soon-to-be new baby.’
‘So, your sons died in France?’ said Amaia.
‘Yes, and that’s where they’re supposed to be buried, in the beautiful cemetery in Ainhoa – except they aren’t there.’
Amaia stared intently at the woman, who seemed oblivious as she fingered her fringe, wet with perspiration, in an effort to neaten it.
‘Would you be prepared to make a statement at the police station about what you’ve just told me?’
‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘I’m fed up with being ignored. I don’t know where else to turn.’
‘I should warn you that unless we can verify your claims, your statement will be worthless. I want you to write down everything you’ve just told me, including dates and any details that might help corroborate your testimony. Anything you can remember, no matter how trivial it might seem. I’ll need a telephone number I can reach you on.’
The woman looked at her blankly, then replied: ‘Have you got a pen?’
The conference room on the first floor was too big for a meeting of five people. She would normally have called the team into her office to go over the morning’s tasks, instead of standing in front of them like a New York police sergeant assigning them their daily duties. However, after the debacle of the search at Fina Hidalgo’s house, she felt she needed to explain to them about leadership, loyalty and commitment. Having also summoned the twenty-two officers who were working on the relevant shift, she began with a brief summary of events leading up to them obtaining the search warrant, and what had transpired between then and the abortive search. She made clear her suspicions that Fina Hidalgo had been expecting them, and asked everyone present to commit to ridding the force of attitudes that could jeopardise investigations.
This was the first time she had summoned them to a meeting in the conference room; that was usually Iriarte’s job. He was sitting, head down, in the front row, no doubt annoyed at having been demoted. She scrupulously avoided singling out any member of her team or even looking at them, but despite her attempts to include everyone who’d been on duty during the relevan
t period, it was obvious her message was directed at them in particular. When the meeting was over, she asked them to remain behind.
‘A new witness has come forward.’
They all looked at her, intrigued.
‘A woman who claims her two babies died of SIDS at the same time. She also says that, after they died, her ex-husband – they had since divorced – who visited the Martínez-Bayón couple at their home in Orabidea, assured her their fortunes would improve. Does that sound familiar? She’s agreed to come in and make a statement this afternoon. I’d like you all to be present, and to ask questions you think might be pertinent.’
They nodded.
‘I ought to warn you. She’s a bit … odd.’ She thought about how to describe the witness without undermining her credibility. ‘The loss of her sons left her traumatised, and she is on prescribed medication, which makes her seem confused. When we spoke, she came across as quite competent: she was able to supply dates, and her account of events seemed clear. However, we need to check the facts, because based on her mental state a lawyer would have no difficulty pulling our case apart. She should be arriving any minute.’
Yolanda Berrueta was wearing a maroon dress with a matching jacket, which she carried over her arm, and thick tights. Her hair, clean and recently combed, was secured with a large clip. She seemed nervous, and was clutching a cardboard folder, which bore the imprint of her sweaty fingers. Amaia accompanied her to an office on the first floor and offered to take the file, but the woman held it to her chest in a defensive manner. She introduced Yolanda to her colleagues and informed her that the interview would be taped.
‘I’d like you to tell my colleagues what you told me this morning, adding any fresh details you may have remembered and which you think might be relevant.’
‘I met Marcel Tremond, my ex-husband during a ski trip in Huesca; we got engaged and then married. I didn’t want children: I liked the good life, also I considered myself too old to be a mother. But Marcel was younger than me, and he convinced me. Finally, I got pregnant, and after I gave birth, I devoted myself to looking after my babies. The poor little things were underweight, but we looked after them. One evening, when they were about two months old, I went to check on them while they were asleep, and saw that they’d stopped breathing.’
Her voice was a dull monotone, but her face was beaded with sweat, as if she’d been caught in a rain shower.
‘We rushed them to the hospital, but they couldn’t save them. My babies died.’ She started to cry softly. Iriarte passed her a box of tissues. Yolanda took a handful, applying them to her damp face in layers, like an Egyptian death mask. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured through spread fingers.
‘Don’t worry, carry on when you’re ready.’
She peeled the tissues off her face, rolling them into a moist ball in her hand.
‘There was a wake, then the funeral, but I wasn’t allowed to see my children. Marcel said it would be better for me to remember them as they were, and he asked for the coffins to be sealed. Why did they treat me like that? Did they think I was too fragile to see my boys? Didn’t they realise how terrible it is for a mother not to see her dead children? Why wouldn’t they let me see them?’
Sitting behind her, Inspector Montes looked searchingly at Amaia as Yolanda continued her story.
‘I know why. Because they weren’t inside their coffins – my boys had been stolen.’
Iriarte broke in. ‘You believe someone kidnapped your children? Do you think they might still be alive?’
‘If only they were! No, when we left for the hospital, they were already in cardiac arrest; their little faces had turned blue, and their fingers too. They died that night.’
‘So, you claim that their bodies were stolen.’
‘I don’t claim anything: I know. I saw it with my own eyes. I was so weak, they thought I couldn’t walk, but mothers have hidden reserves of strength. I went into the room where the metal casket was and I opened it; inside were some bags of sugar wrapped in a towel. But my babies weren’t there.’
‘Did you mention this to anyone?’ asked Amaia.
‘I told Marcel, but he insisted I’d gone into the wrong room. At the time I thought he must be right, they had dosed me with sedatives, and I had got confused. But, tell me, why would anyone put bags of sugar inside a casket?’
‘Did you tell anyone else about it?’ asked Iriarte.
‘No, no, I burst into tears, so they gave me another injection. When I woke up, it was all over and they’d taken the coffins.’
‘What makes you think your husband was involved?’
‘He changed. He started to act differently. He was so attentive while I was pregnant, but after the children died, he lost all interest in me; he abandoned me when I most needed him.’
‘Some people react badly to grief,’ said Amaia, looking straight at her. ‘What other changes did you notice?’
‘He was never at home – because of work, he said, his business was doing well. But I didn’t believe him. He couldn’t be working all the time. So I started to follow him.’
Amaia noticed Zabalza glancing at Montes, and Montes’s expression when he looked back.
‘You followed your husband?’ she asked.
‘Yes, and this morning, after you said to write everything down, I remembered something.’
She opened the folder, which she had kept close to her throughout the interview, and placed on the table high-quality images printed on A4 paper. They showed a car parked by a wall, which Amaia recognised as the one surrounding the Martínez-Bayóns’ house; in one of them, the mailbox was visible.
‘That’s Marcel’s car, and that’s the house he was visiting. These are the only photos I could find, but I’m sure there are more on my memory sticks. I took loads – until they saw me, and started parking inside the gates.’
Some of the photographs showed other cars parked on the narrow road.
‘You told Inspector Salazar that your husband is a businessman,’ Iriarte said. ‘Did you know that the owners of that house are also in business? Did you consider the possibility that their meetings may have been work-related?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ she stammered.
‘Are you aware of your husband having had any dealings with the legal firm Lejarreta & Andía?’ asked Inspector Montes.
‘I’ve never heard of them.’
‘Where did you give birth?’ asked Amaia.
‘At a French hospital called Notre Dame de Montagne.’
‘Did you at any point consider having a home birth?’
‘My husband suggested it when I first got pregnant, but once we found out I was expecting twins the subject never came up again. Besides, if I’m honest, the idea gives me the creeps; why have a home birth when you can be in a hospital? The thought of lying there with the whole family watching seems primitive to me.’
‘Do you know a midwife called Fina Hidalgo?’
‘No.’
Zabalza, who was taking notes, asked: ‘Is the hospital where you gave birth the same one your babies died in?’
‘Yes, they were treated there from birth.’
‘Could you tell us the name of your doctor, so we can ask for a copy of the autopsy?’
‘There was no autopsy.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Amaia, surprised. ‘It’s routine procedure when someone dies in hospital.’
‘There was no autopsy,’ the woman insisted, brushing aside her fringe, now wet with perspiration and plastered to her brow in a way that looked comical. Then she raised her arms to unstick her hair from the back of her neck. Montes watched as several beads of sweat trickled down her neck to join the damp circles under her arms.
‘Would you like a glass of water?’ he asked.
‘No, I’m fine …’
She radiated heat like someone with a fever, and her body odour filled the room. Montes signalled to Etxaide to open the window, but Amaia restrained him with a gesture.
The woman took five more sheets of paper filled with tiny, cramped handwriting out of the file. As she passed them over the table, Amaia received a waft of stale sweat.
‘I’ve written down everything I can remember. It’s all true, but sometimes I get confused about what happened when … It’s because of the medication, but those are the facts – you can check them for yourselves.’
‘Thank you, Yolanda,’ said Amaia, extending her hand, only to discover that the other woman was still clutching the wet ball of tissues. Yolanda hurriedly changed it over to her other hand, and Amaia felt her feverish heat as she shook her hand firmly. ‘You’ve been a great help. We’ll be in touch over the next few days. If you remember anything else, don’t hesitate to call us. Deputy Inspector Zabalza will show you out. Do you need a lift home?’
‘No thank you, my parents are waiting for me outside.’
They held off opening the window until they were sure she was out of earshot.
‘Fuck! I thought I was going to suffocate,’ said Montes, leaning out and breathing in a lungful of fresh air.
‘So, what conclusions can we take from this?’ asked Amaia.
‘That she stinks like a pig and sweats like a bull.’
‘That’s unkind, Montes,’ said Amaia reprovingly. ‘Yolanda is on medication, one of the side effects of which is bromhidrosis, or body odour. Don’t you know about stress-related perspiration? Have some respect.’
‘I have respect, what I don’t have is a nose of steel. The woman stinks of piss!’
‘That’s because when the sweat reaches the pores it produces ammonia and fatty acids. I’m sure you’ve encountered far worse smells during your days on the beat. Right, so, do any of you have observations that aren’t related to this poor woman’s body odour?’
‘I knew her a long time ago,’ said Iriarte. ‘She obviously didn’t recognise me. Her father is Benigno Berrueta, who owns the Almandoz mines; her mother is from Oieregi, where they used to live. She was eighteen then, and forty kilos lighter. She was a spoilt little rich kid, and extremely pretty. Even at that age she drove a sports car. It’s pitiful to see how life has treated her.’
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