‘Salazar, I believe you two have already met …’
Amaia extended her hand, which the woman clasped firmly as she murmured: ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
In response, Amaia heard herself uttering words she had heard from the lips of Johana’s mother, as well as one of Lucía Aguirre’s daughters, which at the time she hadn’t fully appreciated.
‘Take care of him in there.’ It was a gaffe, an unconscious slip, a prayer from the heart that caused Montes to wince as he emptied his lungs of air, while Zabalza pulled a face, struggling to contain himself.
Clemos and his team followed the pathologist into the autopsy room while Amaia and her colleagues looked on with mournful expressions.
‘I thought you might like to wait up in my office,’ San Martín suggested, beckoning them towards the stairs.
Amaia would be eternally obliged to San Martín for letting them use his office that day. Stepping into the gloomy, masculine room she had first visited the previous year, she had felt overwhelmed with melancholy. On that occasion, Johana Márquez’s mother had told them amid floods of tears about her husband’s controlling behaviour towards her daughter, whom he went on to rape and murder. As always, Jonan had been with her, and she recalled how moved he was by the woman’s insistence on praying to one of the bronze figurines. Amaia glanced about for the sculpture. The magnificent Pietà, one metre tall, stood in the same place on the conference table; an unusual depiction of the Virgin Mary cradling her dead son in her arms, Christ’s face concealed among the folds of her robe like an infant clasped to her bosom. Amaia studied it intently, reflecting that this was the natural gesture, the one demanded by the body, the same urge she’d been forced to suppress when she saw Jonan lying on the floor: to embrace him, clasp him to her heart. Tears pricked her eyes and she swallowed hard, turning away from the sculpture to collect herself.
San Martín gave Amaia his chair behind the heavy table, while Clemos sat across from her, visibly uneasy in her presence. He disliked her. Clemos was one of those macho policemen who resented having a woman for a boss, and took a childish delight in being ‘king of the castle’. She gave him a stern look, which he evaded by reading his notes.
‘You’ll receive a copy of the autopsy report once it’s ready,’ he began, ‘in the meantime … Deputy Inspector Etxaide received two shots, one to the chest and a second to the head, after he was on the floor. We recovered one bullet casing – the killer appears to have taken the other – and one bullet which was lodged in the floorboards. Dr Hernández removed a second bullet from the body. The nature of the crime and the type of gun used suggests the work of a hired killer. I have several officers searching Etxaide’s house for the murder weapon; they usually get rid of it immediately, either in a rubbish bin or down a drain. We may never find it.’
Clemos glanced up to gauge her reaction to his words, then returned to his notes.
‘Everything points to the killer being known to the victim, either that or his appearance posed no threat. We can tell from the position of his body, on the far side of the sitting room, that Etxaide not only opened the door to his killer, but invited him into the apartment. There were no signs of a struggle, and although some computer and photographic equipment was taken, his wallet and other valuable items were untouched, so it appears this wasn’t a burglary.’
‘What about Jonan’s service revolver?’ asked Montes.
‘Missing. As you know, this is also typical of a hired killer; I wouldn’t be surprised if it showed up at some other crime scene in a few years’ time. A clean gun is priceless.’
Amaia listened impassively.
‘So, we need you to tell us who might have wanted Etxaide dead, who bore a grudge against him, and whether he’d received any threats.’
Montes and Zabalza both shook their heads.
‘I can’t imagine Jonan falling out with anyone. He wasn’t that kind of person,’ declared Montes.
‘What cases was he working on? Maybe the accused, or the suspects, had it in for him.’
‘I’ve sent you a copy of all the reports,’ said Iriarte. ‘In the basajaun case, the culprit was shot; the main suspect in the tarttalo case took his own life in prison; then there was a Colombian who killed his girlfriend and tried to kill himself; a sixty-five-year-old woman who stabbed her husband to death while he was asleep, after suffering years of domestic abuse; and the Dieietzki case – a Russian drug trafficker who arranged the murder of one of his competitors while he was in prison.’
‘What about more recent cases?’
‘There’s the Esparza case,’ Iriarte went on. ‘A father accused of murdering his four-month-old baby girl. He also committed suicide in prison.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard the body count is mounting,’ Clemos said, smirking as he exchanged glances with one of his team.
‘Watch your mouth, Clemos!’ snapped Montes. ‘Or I’ll—’
‘Montes,’ Amaia broke in, ‘cut the inspector some slack. If we give him enough rope, he might end up hanging himself.’
Clemos glanced at her uneasily, and swallowed hard.
‘It was a joke.’
‘We aren’t in the mood for your jokes,’ said Montes, looking daggers at him.
‘Well,’ Clemos resumed, ‘we’ll need his computer from the station at Elizondo, as well as access to his desk and personal belongings.’
‘Call by whenever it’s convenient,’ said Iriarte.
Clemos cleared his throat, uneasily. ‘And then there are the other elements …’
‘And what might those be?’ asked Amaia.
‘Those unrelated to his police work.’
‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at.’
‘Could Etxaide have been involved in some shady dealings – drugs, weapons—’
‘No. You can rule that out.’
‘… And we mustn’t forget that he was homosexual.’
Amaia cocked her head to one side, narrowing her eyes as she studied Clemos.
‘I don’t see what part Deputy Inspector Etxaide’s sexuality could play in solving this case.’
‘Well,’ said Clemos, avoiding Amaia’s eyes and seeking refuge in those of his colleagues. ‘It’s well known that sex among the gay community can be somewhat chaotic, and, well … they get very worked up over things.’ He shrugged.
‘Inspector Clemos,’ she said, ‘before you start speculating you need to clarify your thinking and get your facts straight. Firstly, you’ve just outlined a series of compelling reasons to suggest the killer was a hitman, and yet now you’re saying this could have been a crime of passion. Secondly, there’s no evidence that levels of violence are any higher among the gay community than among the heterosexual community. I don’t like you, Clemos, and I don’t believe you are fit to lead this investigation, but the commissioner has placed you in charge and I have to accept that. However, if I hear you make any further baseless insinuations, I’ll have you taken off the case.’
Clemos rose from his seat.
‘Very well, if that’s the way you want it. I came to talk to you in person out of respect. I could have sent a written report – which is what I’ll be doing from now on.’
‘Good, I want it on my desk first thing tomorrow morning,’ she retorted as he stormed out.
Amaia’s team remained at the table, saying nothing but exchanging glances. Amaia closed her eyes and shook her head.
‘I know, I went too far … But they have no idea who Jonan is … who he was. I’m not going to let that jerk get away with making crass remarks.’
‘No need to apologise, boss. I came this close to punching his lights out,’ said Montes.
‘Put yourself in his shoes,’ Iriarte broke in. They turned to look at him, irritated. ‘These are still the early stages of the investigation, he’s obliged to keep an open mind.’
‘You’ve got a point there, Inspector,’ Montes rounded on him. ‘But all this going by the rule book – doesn’t it make you sick s
ometimes?’
The tension in the air was palpable as the two men locked eyes. Amaia was about to step in when Dr Hernández arrived, accompanied by San Martín.
‘Dr San Martín has asked me to answer any questions you might have, so here I am,’ she said, taking a seat in the chair vacated by Clemos.
‘Tell us what you’ve found,’ said Amaia.
Dr Hernández took out a pen and opened the file she was carrying to display a diagram of a body, which she drew on as she spoke.
‘Two shots fired from a nine-millimetre pistol: the first, to the chest, knocked your man down, severing his aorta and causing a massive haemorrhage; the second, to the forehead, was what killed him, although it was superfluous as he would have died of blood loss within seconds. The first bullet became lodged in his neck, and was removed during the autopsy; the second caused an exit wound and was retrieved at the scene of the crime. Judging from the extent of rigor mortis, we estimate time of death at between ten and twelve last night, but we’ll have to wait for the test results to confirm that.’
‘What do you think happened?’
‘He opened the door to his killer, invited him in and offered him a seat.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘The trajectory of the first bullet. It travelled upward, as if his assailant were kneeling or sitting down. Look at the diagram and you’ll see: the bullet entered just below the collarbone, then became lodged in the neck. If his assailant had been standing, even if he was relatively short, the bullet would have exited through the back or become lodged in the shoulder blade, and yet it was found just below the cranium.’
Amaia studied the diagram.
‘Would you both agree that the killer must have been sitting roughly here?’ she said, addressing Hernández and San Martín as she pointed to a place on the diagram, then traced a line with her finger.
Amaia addressed her team: ‘Let me see the photographs you took of Detective Inspector Etxaide’s apartment.’
They all placed their mobiles on the table, showing images of the room from several different angles.
‘That doesn’t work. His killer couldn’t have been facing him while sitting on the sofa. Unless he moved the body.’
‘The body lay where it fell,’ said San Martín, ‘it wasn’t moved afterwards.’
‘Could he have moved the furniture, then?’
‘The furniture wasn’t moved either,’ said Montes. ‘I visited his apartment a few months ago, and that’s how it was arranged then.’
‘Could his assailant have been very short?’ ventured Amaia.
‘The same height as an eight- or nine-year-old child? I doubt it.’
‘Perhaps there was a struggle, and Jonan pushed the killer over. That might explain why he was shot from lower down,’ suggested Zabalza.
‘There was no sign of a struggle, no defence wounds or any other marks on his hands, although he could have pushed his assailant towards the door.’
Dr Hernández gazed thoughtfully at the diagram.
‘Do you agree with Inspector Clemos that this was the work of a professional killer?’ asked Amaia.
Raising her eyes, the pathologist stared off into space.
‘Possibly … The most obvious elements point in that direction, but there are others that raise questions. For one thing, this shot fired from low down, the strange trajectory, that’s not the way hitmen work. And then there’s the second bullet. This could have been a coup de grâce, the killer’s way of making sure he’d accomplished his mission, but, as I said, the first shot would have been fatal, although his death would have been painful and distressing; a massive haemorrhage would have caused his lungs to collapse, flooding his oesophagus and trachea with blood and leaving him to endure the agony of asphyxia. In which case the second bullet spared him a great deal of suffering. It was almost an act of mercy.’
‘You’re kidding me!’ exclaimed Montes. ‘Since when is a bullet to the head an act of mercy?’
‘When the intention is to alleviate suffering that is strictly unnecessary.’
‘And you think that because the killer shot him twice?’ said Montes sceptically.
Dr Hernández extracted a photograph from her file. It was an enlarged image of Jonan’s face, taken at the crime scene. As she placed it on the table, she could almost hear the silence spread like a cold wave over the company.
‘No. I think that because the killer closed his eyes.’
34
The fifty-minute journey to Elizondo took the best part of two hours. Snowploughs and gritters had strewn the road with a mixture of slush and salt, which sprayed up beneath the car tyres like reverse rain. It was no longer snowing, but the cold night air had kept the white mounds at the sides of the road intact, and the sinister darkness of the mountain had been replaced by an orange glow as moonlight reflected off the snow, casting an otherworldly corona over the landscape like the surface of an unknown planet.
Amaia’s mobile rang on speakerphone, and she recognised the number on the screen as the one Dupree had last rung her from. She quickly accepted the call, fearing it would be cut off, and searched for a place to pull over. After putting on her warning lights she answered.
‘Aloisius?’
‘Is it dark already in Baztán, Inspector Salazar?’
‘Darker than ever,’ she replied.
‘I’m so sorry, Amaia.’
‘Thanks, Aloisius, how did you hear about it?’
‘A murdered cop in Spain is news that spreads fast.’
‘But I thought you—’
‘Don’t believe everything you hear, Inspector. How are you?’
She heaved a deep sigh. ‘Lost.’
‘You’re not lost, you’re just frightened. It’s normal, you haven’t had time to think yet, but you will, inevitably, and then you’ll find your way.’
‘But I don’t know where to begin. Everything around me is falling apart. I don’t understand what’s going on.’
‘Why think about that, Salazar? With all your experience, in life as in your work, surely you don’t believe things happen for no reason.’
‘I don’t know. I can’t see any patterns in this chaos. I feel blind,’ she sobbed, the tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘What happened to Jonan is so … I still can’t believe it – and you want me to find a reason behind all this?’
‘Think.’
‘That’s all I do, but I find no answers.’
‘You’ll find them when you ask the right questions.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Aloisius, the last thing I need is advice from the Ninja master … Tell me something useful.’
‘I already warned you. Someone close to you isn’t what they seem.’
‘And who is this person?’
‘That’s for you to tell me.’
‘How can I, if I’m blind?’
‘You’ve answered your own question. You can’t see, Salazar, but you’re only blind because you want to be. Get some perspective. Go back to the beginning. Press reset, Inspector. Remember where this all started. Forget everything you think you know and start from the beginning.’
She sighed wearily. ‘Are you going to help me?’
‘Don’t I always?’
She sat in silence, listening.
‘The devil is on your tail, un mort sur vous,’ he said.
‘Aloisius, the case was closed when the father of the girl was killed in prison. The wife made a statement clearly implicating him, but now he’s dead there’s no case to answer,’ she explained, omitting any reference to Yolanda Berrueta’s story or the events in Ainhoa.
‘Whatever you say, Inspector.’
‘Thanks, Aloisius.’
‘Try to get some sleep; tomorrow is another day.’
The luggage by the front door upset her in a way she hadn’t expected. James and Ibai’s suitcases, packed and ready for their departure the following day left her with a terrible sense of loss.
James, Engrasi and
Ros had all waited up for her. Their embraces, their hands clasping hers, the genuine sympathy from those who loved her and whose hearts went out to her. She explained nothing, she told them nothing; she had spent the entire afternoon reliving the horror, and now, suddenly, she felt hollowed out. She was conscious of falling into the trap of denial, which she had experienced even as Jonan’s lifeless body lay at her feet, as she found herself unable to visualise her dead friend’s face, his corpse sprawled on the floor. Her memory was like a haze of blinding light, preventing her from accepting the truth: that he was dead, that Jonan was dead. She could think it, but her brain refused to believe it, and she was too weary to make herself confront that cruel reality, so she let herself fall, or leapt into the trap, which was merciful, and didn’t hurt as much.
As she listened to her family talk amongst themselves, she was able for the first time that day to forget her grief and think about something else. Before going to bed, she called the Saint Collette hospital. Yolanda Berrueta was off the critical list, and had been moved on to the ward.
James had been awake for hours, listening to Ibai’s soft breathing and watching his exhausted wife sleeping beside him. Even plunged into that sleep she so desperately needed, the grief was still etched on her face. Each time he heard her whimper and start to cry, he stroked her cheek, consoling her from afar, and it occurred to him that things had always been this way with her. Sharing Amaia’s life meant accepting that they inhabited parallel worlds: while she slept, he was awake; while he dreamed, she kept watch. It was as if they could never touch; his caresses, his words, his tenderness had to be offered from afar. Though he loved her deeply, he knew that she perceived his love as she might a gentle embrace in a dream. A tear rolled down her cheek. Moved by this, he leaned over and planted a gentle kiss on her lips. She opened her eyes, smiling when she saw him.
‘Oh, my love!’ She placed her arms about his neck, winning him over once more.
35
Amaia and Engrasi had both got up early – Amaia because she was eager to spend every last second with Ibai, and her aunt so as to observe her. She watched her niece stroll about the house cradling the boy and humming fragments of songs Engrasi could barely make out. Even so, she could tell they were filled with sorrow from the way Amaia’s arms encircled the child tenderly and her soft, childlike voice as she whispered to him, the fleeting expressions on her pale tear-stained face. Her features seemed frozen beneath a mask of pain so deep it would prevent her from ever smiling again.
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