‘Well, they’re still loaded. The father was waiting for her outside in a BMW that must have cost at least eighty grand,’ Zabalza broke in.
‘That’s not what I meant: divorced, two dead babies and a mental breakdown. I wouldn’t swap places with her for all the money in the world.’
‘So,’ Montes summed up, ‘we have a middle-aged rich kid – who we mustn’t forget is undergoing psychiatric treatment – accusing her ex-husband – who, let’s not forget this either, has remarried and is expecting another child – of stealing their sons’ bodies. What can I say? I feel sorry for her too, but a magistrate is going to see a crazy, embittered woman wreaking revenge on her ex-husband.’
‘I warned you that she was odd, and that we had to tread carefully. I realise how the situation would appear to a magistrate, but I think she’s telling the truth – or at least, I think she believes what she’s saying. We only have to check her story, and right now, this woman, with her glaring faults, is all we have. And of course that detail about bags of sugar in the casket is extremely significant.’
They nodded as one.
‘Montes and Zabalza, find out if Marcel Tremond or any of his companies have dealings with Lejarreta & Andía. We’ll request the autopsy reports from the hospital where the babies died; if they don’t have them, we’ll contact the relevant pathologist’s office. Let’s see if Yolanda is right and no autopsies were carried out. And remember your manners, we have no jurisdiction in France, and no warrant. Iriarte, I’d like you to accompany Etxaide and me to Ainhoa, on a day’s outing, to take a look around and see what the locals have to say. For the time being, we will limit ourselves to checking Yolanda’s statement word for word without involving any third parties …’
25
In Amaia’s opinion, Ainhoa was the prettiest village in southern France. The first community you came to after crossing the Dantxarinea border, it was located in Nouvelle-Aquitaine, in the French Basque commune of Laburt. Its position, on the road to Santiago de Compostela, suggested it had probably been a stopping-off place for pilgrims, much like Elizondo. After parking next to the traditional pelota court, they strolled down the broad avenue, admiring the thirteenth-century architecture, reminiscent of the Txokoto neighbourhood in Elizondo, except for the dark wooden beams, which in Ainhoa were painted bright green, red, yellow and blue. They also observed the stone plaques and coats of arms with strange, Frenchified, Basque names.
The Tremond family house stood at the end of the avenue where the road curved gently, opening on to a landscape of hills dotted with quaint-looking dwellings. They walked past, admiring the patio, which they could see through the open gate. Round stones set in the ground formed a perfect circle in what had once been the coach yard.
What made Ainhoa special, what for Amaia gave the town all its character, was the cemetery surrounding the church. Juan Pérez de Baztán, squire of Jaureguizar and Ainhoa, had dedicated his church to Our Lady of the Assumption; through the ages, the original building had undergone so many changes and alterations that it was difficult to pin down the style. Burials in the environs of the church began in the sixteenth century, as the population grew, and also to accommodate the many pilgrims who died before reaching their destination. It was a cemetery where family tombs were arranged in rows and packed so close together that one had to clamber over some to get to others. The many circular headstones were decorated with geometric symbols, Basque crosses and above all sun engravings; some symbols revealed the deceased person’s profession, others were elaborately decorated telling the story of the occupant’s life from cradle to grave. Perched on a grassy knoll at the centre of the village, the cemetery could be seen from streets, houses, shops and cafés all over the village; with no boundary wall to separate them, the living and the dead mingled in a casual, benign manner, which outsiders found unnerving.
The church was dark, cold and silent. Empty apart from a man and woman sitting in the front pew. After circling the churchyard once, they found the Tremond family tomb. Just as Yolanda Berrueta had told them, it was festooned with flowers, mostly white – the traditional colour for a child’s grave. As they approached the blackened stone structure, Amaia noticed Iriarte’s reluctance to step on the neighbouring graves, proverbially a mark of disrespect.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It must be the custom here, otherwise most of these tombs would be unreachable.’
Deputy Inspector Etxaide moved aside some of bouquets so he could read the inscriptions on the slab. The children’s names were missing.
He replaced the flowers, stepping backwards on to another tomb, pulling a face as he did so.
‘Boss, from where I’m standing, the slab seems to be tilting slightly,’ he said, stepping forward again, and running his fingers over the gap where the slab joined the sides of the tomb. ‘No, actually, someone has tried to prise open the tomb, and the sandstone has crumbled.’
Feeling the place Jonan had indicated, she found the gap where the slab had been forced.
An old lady who could have been ninety was watching them from the path. Jonan went over to her, smiling. After a brief exchange, he kissed her on both cheeks, then returned to Amaia and the sullen Iriarte, who seemed affected by the melancholy of the place.
‘Madame Marie tells me the priest won’t be here until midday.’
Amaia glanced at her watch: they had half an hour to kill.
‘Why don’t we get a coffee, it’s freezing out here,’ she suggested, grinning at Iriarte’s sombre expression as they made their way towards the steps down to the main street.
There was a café on the corner, but on the way, Amaia paused to look at the souvenirs in the window of a shop facing the churchyard.
‘Jonan, come over here. What does that say?’ she asked.
Etxaide read the French then translated.
‘Our neighbours opposite may be at peace, but we have a better life. We aren’t planning to move in the near future.’
Amaia grinned. ‘Gallows humour, Inspector Iriarte; it comes from living with the dead,’ she said, attempting to raise a laugh. Since the abortive search at Fina Hidalgo’s house the previous day, she’d found him more morose than usual.
‘Imagine living here,’ he murmured, gesturing towards the balconies on the first and second floors. ‘The first thing you’d see every day is a graveyard. I don’t think that’s healthy.’
‘There used to be a graveyard outside the old church in Elizondo. After the river washed it away, they moved it out to Camino de los Alduides.’
‘I would never buy a house where I was forced to look at funerals and exhumations,’ he said, appalled at the thought.
They entered the shop. Amaia browsed for a while, looking through the embossed leather bookmarks with scenes from Ainhoa.
The shopkeeper greeted them with a friendly smile. ‘Are you here sightseeing?’
‘Yes, but our main reason for stopping off is because we have acquaintances here. They live down the road in the house with red shutters – the Tremond family.’
The man nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, I know them.’
‘We just visited the tomb where their sons are buried. What a terrible tragedy!’
The shopkeeper nodded, wistfully this time. Amaia knew from experience how some people loved to talk about the misfortunes of others.
‘Oh, yes, indeed, a tragedy. The mother’s grief drove her insane; she’s tried several times to force open the tomb during her fits of mania.’ He lowered his voice as though confiding a secret. ‘She’s a very nice woman, and I’m extremely fond of her, but more than once I’ve been obliged to call the police. I could see her from here, trying to lift up the slab with a crowbar. I didn’t like to get her into trouble, but what she was doing was too awful for words.’
‘You did the right thing,’ Amaia reassured him. ‘You’re a good neighbour, and I’m sure the family is grateful to you.’
The man smiled with the satisfaction of having done his du
ty and been commended for it. As they emerged from the store, they saw the priest dressed in a cassock and dog collar striding across the graveyard. Giving up the idea of coffee, they followed him into the church.
‘I am acquainted with the family and their terrible ordeal,’ the priest told them. ‘The ex-wife has lost her mind. Every week she comes here to try to convince me that her children aren’t inside the tomb, that someone stole their bodies, that as a mother she knows instinctively that her sons aren’t in there. I have the greatest respect for a mother’s instinct; it’s one of the most powerful forces of nature – our Mother Mary’s love for her son is a cornerstone of our religion. The grief of a mother who loses a child is like no other on earth, which is why I understand Yolanda’s suffering, but I cannot condone her behaviour. Her sons died and were buried here in this churchyard. I myself officiated at the funeral, I witnessed their coffins being lowered into the tomb.’
‘A local man told us that Yolanda has tried to break into the tomb. Is that true?’
‘I’m afraid it is,’ the priest said sadly. ‘On more than one occasion. This is a small village, and everyone knows about it, so if anyone sees her they either call me or they call the police. You must understand, Yolanda isn’t dangerous or violent, she’s simply obsessed …’
‘One other question: why aren’t the children’s names inscribed on the tombstone?’
‘Oh, I’m afraid the graves are so old, and the sandstone so eroded, that most people place a loose plaque on the tomb with the names and dates of the deceased. That’s what they did for the children, but Yolanda smashed them to pieces out on the road, claiming the plaques were false, that her sons weren’t in there.’
When they got back to the police station, Iriarte ended his pained silence with a request:
‘Inspector, could I speak to you in my office?’
Amaia went in, closing the door behind her, as Iriarte walked slowly over to his chair.
‘Take a seat, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I’ve been thinking this over since yesterday …’
He didn’t need to tell her. At the start of the tarttalo investigation a year ago, she had seen how deeply affected Iriarte was by the appearance of the babies’ arm bones. Finding the Esparza girl’s body stuffed in a bag hadn’t exactly helped brighten his vision of the world, and the Kafkaesque deaths of Elena Ochoa, Berasategui and Esparza had made him even more sullen and introverted. He had barely said a word since the debacle at Fina Hidalgo’s house.
‘Salazar, the moment I met you on the basajaun case, I knew I was in the presence of a brilliant detective. Since then I’ve taken part in investigations at a level I could never have dreamed of, and having you here at the police station is a luxury we all appreciate.’ He moistened his lips, revealing his awkwardness at what he was about to say: ‘You aren’t the easiest person to work with – and why should you be? We are what we are, and your complexity is no doubt part of what makes you so good at your job. Our profession is a difficult one, we all have differences of opinion, and I’m no exception. More than once during this past year, I’ve had serious doubts about some of the decisions you’ve made, but I’ve always either given you my support or kept quiet …’
Amaia nodded, recalling the rainy day Iriarte had accompanied her as she spread the dark Baztán earth over her ancestors’ bones in the family itxusuria.
‘But …’ she said.
He smiled, acknowledging that there was a but.
‘I won’t bring into question the integrity of our entire team; I won’t hang those officers out to dry. I admit that Fina Hidalgo burning those files ahead of our visit was more than mere coincidence, and I understand your frustration and suspicions, but I refuse to lay the blame on members of our team without a scrap of evidence. As superintendent of this station, I’ve opened an internal investigation into whether any information has been leaked from here. But there’s something you must understand: I’ve lived in Baztán all my life, and I’ve been at this police station for many years, and unless a piece of information is labelled confidential, people will talk. Someone could have mentioned it in all innocence to a relative, or blurted it out in a public place … However, I can vouch for the integrity of my officers; none of them called Fina Hidalgo, and I think it was a mistake to ask them to hand over their mobile phones.’
Amaia heard him out in silence, appreciating how difficult it was for Iriarte to confront her on this matter. And as she listened, her mood changed, her initial irritation gave way to deep regret. Watching him search for the right words to tell her she was mistaken, avoiding her gaze for more than three seconds at a time, speaking calmly and deliberately to remove any trace of hostility from his voice …
‘You’re right,’ she conceded. ‘I was frustrated after the fiasco at Hidalgo’s, and I doubt that any of those men is capable of sabotaging an investigation out of personal resentment. But the fact is, whether the leak was accidental or not, Fina Hidalgo destroyed evidence because someone tipped her off, and that has jeopardised this investigation. I want you to get to the bottom of it. This is a police station, not a school playground. These officers ought to understand what it means to wear this uniform.’ Amaia softened her tone: ‘I appreciate your loyalty and your honesty, and I return the compliment. I overstepped myself and I apologise; my intention wasn’t to undermine your authority. I just wanted everyone to understand the seriousness of what had happened.’
‘Rest assured, we do.’
As Amaia stood up to leave, Iriarte added: ‘There’s one other thing, Inspector Salazar. Your invitation to take part in the FBI seminars has arrived, along with authorisation papers from Pamplona. They’re on your desk, awaiting your signature.’
Inspector Montes took his seat with a smile.
‘Well, that was easy. Marcel Tremond has several businesses registered in Navarre, Aragon and La Rioja, most of them to do with wind-farm technology, turbine engines, that sort of thing. Lejarreta & Andía are named as legal representatives in every case. So there’s a definite link.’
‘I wasn’t so lucky,’ Jonan broke in. ‘The test results of the paper samples lifted from the bonfire at Fina Hidalgo’s came in: it turns out there was too much damage for them to be able to make out any writing,’ he said, placing a printed sheet on the table. ‘Apart from that, I’ve spent the day firing off emails and talking on the phone to a French pathologist and the hospital where Yolanda’s boys died. She’s right: there was no autopsy. The paediatrician who treated them from birth signed the death certificate, and deemed it unnecessary. The funeral was organised by a local undertaker, who transported the bodies from the funeral parlour to the cemetery. Marcel Tremond asked to be left alone with his boys to say a last farewell, but that’s nothing unusual. No one else was left alone with the coffins, which they clearly remember the father requesting remain sealed.’
Amaia gazed pensively at her two officers as she absorbed this information. She had been certain their inquiries would bear fruit, and now that she’d been proved right it was like a weight being lifted from her shoulders. She gave a sigh, aware that with this fresh information, added to what she already knew, the case was beginning to gain momentum – just when she was starting to doubt her ability to see it through to the end.
‘My witness, a neighbour of the Martínez-Bayóns, has identified Tremond’s car as one of those she has seen parked outside Argi Beltz. Unfortunately, I suspect she’s beginning to understand the ramifications of all this, because she informed me today that she wouldn’t be able to swear to it in court as she didn’t write down the number plate. She’s in no doubt about those of Fina Hidalgo and Valentín Esparza, and Berasategui’s car had a special badge. She has seen all three entering and leaving the property on several occasions. She isn’t sure about Marcel Tremond, but she has seen Yolanda taking photographs of the house.’
Iriarte nodded.
‘Argi Beltz appears to be the link between all those people and Berasategui. Even if we can’t prove they
met each other there, we know they’ve all visited the house. Bearing in mind our psychiatrist friend’s penchant for the bones of dead babies, I’m sure any magistrate would see reasonable and sufficient grounds for ordering an exhumation.’
‘Possibly, but Markina isn’t just any magistrate,’ she declared.
‘Inspector, Judge Markina has no jurisdiction in France,’ said Iriarte, looking straight at her, waiting for his meaning to sink in. ‘I’m acquainted with Judge De Gouvenain. A couple of years ago we collaborated with French police on a drug-trafficking case where one of the suspects turned up dead in Navarre after a settling of scores. She’s a pragmatist, used to dealing with the ugly side of life, but with great compassion. She won’t balk at authorising an exhumation order, especially if the aim is to alleviate a mother’s pain. I think if you explain to her that Yolanda Berrueta’s grief has made her unbalanced, and that this could have been avoided if she’d been able to see from the beginning that her sons’ bodies were indeed inside the tomb, Judge De Gouvenain is sure to give her permission.’
‘It’s too risky. I can’t do it like that. What if their bodies aren’t in the tomb? What if, as I suspect, Marcel Tremond took his dead sons to the same place where Esparza planned to take his daughter, and where my mother possibly took my twin sister? If the bodies are missing, how will I explain to Judge De Gouvenain why I failed to mention these other aspects of the investigation?’
‘In that case,’ said Iriarte, ‘let the French police deal with it. Tell them what we’ve got so far, and let them request the exhumation order. But leave out any reference to your mother and sister. If De Gouvenain thinks you are personally involved, she may refuse to sign the order; but aside from that, I see no problem. The case has got as far as Esparza’s death, and then we established a link between him and Berasategui. The tarttalo’s sensational crimes reached beyond our borders; in fact, I received several emails and calls from our French colleagues, which means De Gouvenain must have heard about it. Present it as a vague suspicion. I’m sure that a possible crime with links to the tarttalo committed in her territory will be far too tempting for an ambitious woman like Judge De Gouvenain to resist.’ Iriarte looked at his watch. ‘The Chief of Border Police works late, and I have his number.’
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