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Offering to the Storm

Page 27

by Dolores Redondo


  When they loaded the luggage into the car at midday, Engrasi stood in the doorway gazing mournfully at them. Amaia took her by the hand and led her into the kitchen.

  ‘What’s the matter, Auntie?’

  Engrasi shrugged, and this frail gesture filled Amaia with sorrow.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Don’t mind me, dear. I suppose I’ve become accustomed to having you all here, and it breaks my heart to see you go, especially after what’s been happening these past few days.’

  Amaia embraced her aunt, kissing her snow-white hair.

  ‘I’m afraid, Amaia. I probably shouldn’t say this, but I have a bad feeling about you leaving, as if you’re never going to come back.’

  ‘Auntie, don’t let James hear you say that. He’s about to catch a plane, and you know he has faith in your hunches.’

  ‘That isn’t what I’m referring to.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘This is about you, it’s all about you.’

  Amaia looked at her aunt tenderly; this wasn’t the first time she had heard her say these words, and it wouldn’t be the last. The same words were spoken by the husbands, wives, mothers and children of police officers the world over … But Jonan’s death had changed everything.

  ‘I’ll be careful, Auntie, I always am. Nothing bad is going to happen to me, I promise. Trust me.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Engrasi, pretending to be reassured. ‘Go now – they’re waiting for you.’

  Loading the car, driving to the airport, parking at the terminal and accompanying them to the check-in, all commonplace actions, habits of a lifetime, interrupted as they reached the gate where she smothered Ibai with kisses before passing him to James. They were leaving. She embraced her husband, kissing him with increasing desperation as she realised she couldn’t bear him to leave. Without thinking, she blurted:

  ‘Please don’t go.’

  He looked at her, surprised. ‘Darling …’

  ‘Please don’t go, James, stay here with me.’

  He waved the tickets in her face like two inescapable facts.

  ‘I can’t, Amaia. Why not come with us?’

  She nestled her head against his chest.

  ‘I can’t, I can’t,’ she groaned, pulling away suddenly. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what made me say that. This is just so hard.’

  He held her in his arms, and they remained like that for a short while until his flight was announced. Afterwards, she stood watching as they mingled with the other passengers filing towards the security gate, where she lost sight of them.

  A chapel of rest had been set up inside the Beloso police station. Local officials, including personnel from the Ministry of the Interior, would stop off there on their way to the cathedral where the funeral would be held. Amaia stood guard in her dress uniform beside the sealed coffin draped with the Navarre flag. Beneath it, the dark wood struck her as ridiculously shiny. From where she was standing, she could see the arrival of Jonan’s parents, whom she had only met a couple of times on National Police Day. She watched as they were greeted by officials, her colleagues offering their condolences, while she stood trapped amid an oppressive atmosphere of whispers and muted sounds, which she found intolerable. When someone took over from her, she made her way towards the couple, who were talking to the minister’s secretary. Jonan’s mother came to greet her, clasping Amaia’s hands clad in her black leather uniform gloves. For a few seconds Amaia contemplated her in silence, as she felt her eyes fill with the thick, blinding tears of grief that come unbidden when we encounter a fellow sufferer. Then she drew closer, kissing her on both cheeks.

  ‘We’ve invited a small group of friends to the house after the funeral. I’d like you to come. Without the uniform,’ she added.

  ‘Of course,’ Amaia replied. Unable to say more, she pulled her hands free and fled the unnatural atmosphere of the chapel of rest. For the last few minutes, her phone had been vibrating incessantly in her pocket. She read the message and made her way upstairs to the homicide section to look for Clemos.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said, loud enough so that everyone present was obliged to answer.

  ‘Good afternoon, boss,’ said Clemos, rising from his seat. ‘Could you come with me,’ he said motioning for her to follow him. ‘You too, please, Garrues,’ he said, addressing one of his officers.

  He opened the door on to a small and stuffy room. Waiting inside were two officers from Internal Affairs, both of whom Amaia knew from previous investigations. She greeted them, refusing the invitation to sit down opposite Clemos, who’d installed himself in the desk chair. This was clearly a clumsy attempt to redress the balance after their meeting yesterday; he was trying to show her who was in charge, but he’d miscalculated in giving her the choice, forgetting that choosing where you position yourself in an enclosed space gives you the upper hand.

  She stood in silence, staring straight at him.

  ‘We’ve come across something, and we’re hoping you might be able to tell us whether it’s significant or not,’ he said, gesturing towards the officer he had asked to accompany them. ‘Garrues is the IT specialist who has been examining Deputy Inspector Etxaide’s police computer. Apparently, Etxaide was something of an expert himself, so I imagine you occasionally went to him for advice.’

  ‘All the time,’ she admitted.

  She felt her hackles rise as Clemos smiled.

  ‘Have you heard of remote access or VPN?’

  ‘I believe it’s a tool or application that allows technicians to access a network without having to be physically present.’

  ‘Did you ever ask Deputy Inspector Etxaide to access your computer in that way, perhaps to solve a problem you were having?’

  ‘No, never. I asked him to set up an email for me once, but I was present at the time. Afterwards, I changed the password, on his advice.’

  Garrues nodded, satisfied.

  ‘Boss, we’ve discovered that Deputy Inspector Etxaide accessed your computer up to twenty times in the past month.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ she said.

  ‘We’ve double-checked: Deputy Inspector Etxaide accessed your emails, as well as various files, some of which he copied, using a remote connection called team viewer. What’s remarkable is that he must have done this at the station, because for the app to be installed, both computers need to be switched on, and the host computer requires a password before accepting. So the next question is: did Deputy Inspector Etxaide have free access to your work computer?’

  ‘Of course he did, he was my assistant and he often worked in my office, although I never saw him touch my computer.’

  The two men from Internal Affairs exchanged glances then gestured for Clemos and Garrues to leave the office. When the door had closed, they invited her to sit down. Again she refused.

  ‘Inspector, we understand that a few days ago an incident occurred during the search of a woman’s house, which suggested that she received a tip-off,’ one of the men said.

  Amaia opened her mouth, but said nothing.

  ‘We also understand that you suspected that someone from the station at Elizondo, or more precisely one of your team, might be responsible for leaking the information.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I admit that, to begin with, I considered that possibility. But after further analysis I ruled it out. I trust my men.’

  ‘Undoubtedly, but the fact is that this warrant,’ he said, reaching for a printout, ‘referred to a particular file, and that file alone was burned by the woman in question as part of what she described as a “clear out” ahead of your arrival. I don’t blame you, Inspector; I would have had my suspicions too.’

  ‘Yes, and I’ve admitted that I did. But what has this to do with Deputy Inspector Etxaide?’

  ‘He accessed your emails the night before, and first thing next morning.’

  She bit her bottom lip, containing herself.

  ‘And yet, the search warrant was no secret,’ t
he officer added.

  ‘Look, I’ve no idea why Deputy Inspector Etxaide accessed my computer, but I’m sure there’s a simple explanation. Could he have done so by accident?’

  ‘The IT specialist just explained that to gain remote access he had to install the app on your computer manually, using a password; that must have been intentional.’

  ‘Perhaps he wanted to send me a photo file that was too big to attach in an email – that happened sometimes,’ she suggested as a last resort. ‘I was expecting some enlargements he’d made, maybe …’

  The man from Internal Affairs shook his head.

  ‘Your loyalty towards your men is touching, Inspector Salazar, but I’m afraid the fact is that Deputy Inspector Etxaide accessed your computer remotely up to twenty times in the last month alone, without your permission. Or did you give him permission?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t.’

  36

  Jonan Etxaide was cremated with only his family in attendance. Those were his wishes, and his parents respected them. Amaia was relieved not to have to see Jonan’s coffin during the interminable funeral service held by the Bishop of Pamplona in front of the city’s political and ecclesiastical representatives, who overwhelmed his extraordinarily dignified, serene parents with their attentions. When the service was over and she was finally able to escape the tainted atmosphere inside the cathedral, she heaved a sigh of relief.

  ‘Inspector.’ She heard a voice behind her. She knew who it was before turning round; the accent was unmistakable.

  ‘Dr Takchenko, Dr González.’ She was genuinely glad to see them. The woman extended her hand, and Amaia felt the strength of her character in the handshake. The man put his arms around her, murmuring his condolences. Amaia freed herself awkwardly from his embrace. Never comfortable with the formulaic responses on such occasions, she made an effort to smile and asked, ‘When did you arrive?’

  ‘This afternoon, it wasn’t easy because there’s still quite a bit of snow on the roads …’

  Yes,’ she said, remembering the weapons courtyard at the fortress in Aínsa, where the two doctors had their laboratory, and Jonan’s fascination with that place.

  ‘I imagine you’re spending the night here …?’

  ‘Yes, we’re staying in the centre of town. Dr González will be heading back tomorrow, but I’m giving a talk here in a few days’ time, so we decided to take a short break. This kind of thing makes you think,’ she said, sweeping the air with an inclusive gesture.

  Amaia looked at them in silence, struck by how absurd conversations seemed now, as if they were all actors, obliged to recite meaningless lines. She had no desire to participate in this charade, to act normally, to pretend that nothing had happened.

  ‘Call me, and we can have lunch together – if you’d like to?’

  ‘I’d like that very much,’ said Amaia, forcing a smile.

  Dr Takchenko leaned forward. ‘I think someone else wants you.’

  Amaia turned towards the street, where what looked like an official state car was parked opposite the entrance to the cathedral. The man in the driver’s seat was beckoning to her. As she approached, he stepped out of the vehicle and opened the rear passenger door for her. She found Father Sarasola waiting inside. After overcoming her initial surprise, she turned to wave goodbye to the two doctors.

  ‘I’m sorry to be seeing you under these circumstances, Inspector Salazar. This is a terrible loss. Although I only met Deputy Inspector Etxaide briefly, he struck me as a brilliant young man, full of promise.’

  ‘He was,’ she replied.

  ‘Would you object to taking a short ride with me?’

  She climbed in and the chauffeur immediately started the engine. They sat in silence as the vehicle negotiated the narrow streets of the old quarter, where the funeral-goers mingled with the usual afternoon pub-crawlers.

  ‘Could you tell me about the circumstances surrounding the death of Deputy Inspector Etxaide?’

  Sarasola’s question threw her; the facts had been reported in the press, and Sarasola was a man who made it his business to keep abreast of everything that went on in the city, so his question must go deeper.

  ‘I could,’ she said hesitantly, ‘but first I’d like to know why you’re asking. The news is in the public domain, and I’m sure you make it your business to know everything that goes on in Pamplona.’

  ‘Naturally, I’ve read about it in the newspapers,’ he said. ‘And I have consulted various “friends”, but I’d like to know who you think murdered Deputy Inspector Etxaide – and why.’

  Sarasola’s interest piqued her curiosity, but she was wary of sharing information with him until she had some idea of his motives. She replied evasively:

  ‘Everything happened so fast, the investigation is still wide open and, as I’m sure you also know, another team is in charge of the case.’

  He gave a sardonic smile. ‘Officially.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘What I mean, Inspector, is that I don’t believe for one moment that you’ve withdrawn from the investigation, except for appearances’ sake.’

  ‘Then believe me, Father, when I tell you that I haven’t a clue where to start.’

  The car was heading along one of the tree-lined avenues close to the university. Unlike in the city centre, the snow there looked freshly fallen. Sarasola tapped the chauffeur’s window, and the man responded by pulling up a few metres ahead. Then he climbed out of the car, put on his overcoat and lit a cigarette, which he puffed on vigorously as he walked away. Sarasola sat at an angle in his seat so he could look Amaia in the eye.

  ‘Do you think Deputy Inspector Etxaide’s death might be connected with the investigation you were working on?’

  ‘You mean the Esparza case? As I’m sure you’re aware, the suspect was murdered in prison. We subsequently followed another line of inquiry, but it led nowhere.’

  Sarasola nodded. Amaia assumed that news must have reached him about the disastrous events in Ainhoa.

  ‘Inspector, I realise there are things you can’t tell me about the investigation, but don’t underestimate me. We both know that it wasn’t Valentín Esparza but rather his relationship with Dr Berasategui that was significant.’

  ‘As far as we know, their relationship was circumstantial. A witness confirmed that he attended a bereavement therapy group run by Berasategui as part of his voluntary work. There’s no reference to Esparza or the group in any of the documents we seized from Berasategui.’

  Sarasola sighed, clasping his hands together in an attitude of prayer.

  ‘You don’t have all of them.’

  She opened her mouth in disbelief. ‘Are you saying that you concealed facts and withheld information that could have had a bearing on the investigation?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not responsible, Inspector. I answer to a higher authority.’

  She stared at him, dumbstruck.

  ‘I will deny we ever had this conversation if you decide to go public, but Deputy Inspector Etxaide’s passing has convinced me that there are things you should know.’

  ‘This murder,’ she said angrily. ‘Deputy Inspector Etxaide didn’t pass, he was murdered. And who are you to decide what information we should be privy to when investigating a crime?’

  ‘Calm down, Inspector. You may find it hard to believe, but I’m your friend. I’m here to help you.’

  She pressed her lips together, not trusting herself to reply, and waited.

  ‘Dr Berasategui kept files at the clinic which contained details of every case he had ever worked on, including that of Valentín Esparza.’

  ‘Where are they? Do you have them?’

  ‘No, I don’t. When Dr Berasategui was arrested, the highest authorities at the Vatican took an interest in the case. As I explained to you when we last met, the practice of psychiatry is often used as a vehicle for discovering cases of interest, which the Catholic Church has been pursuing since its ince
ption.’

  ‘The nuance of evil,’ she said.

  Arching his eyebrows, he stared straight at her.

  ‘Dr Berasategui had made significant advances in this field, which we subsequently discovered he had kept hidden from us. When the case blew open, the Vatican kept back files of his that were deemed to be of no interest to the criminal investigation, but which contained things of a disturbing nature, things which the general public would have had difficulty coming to terms with. For purposes of security, the papers were taken to Rome.’

  ‘You do realise that they are guilty of stealing evidence?’

  He shook his head. ‘The authority of the Church is more powerful than that of the police in these matters. Believe me, there’s nothing you can do about it. They were taken out of the country in a diplomatic bag.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this now?’

  Sarasola let his gaze wander outside for what seemed like a long moment. Amaia waited in silence for him to resume.

  ‘I gave the matter a great deal of thought, and the reason I decided to talk to you is because of the nature of your inquiry when you last came to see me at the clinic.’

  ‘About Inguma?’

  ‘About Inguma, Inspector.’ He paused, raising his fingers to his lips, as if still unsure whether to confide in her or keep it to himself. ‘Are you aware that in the past few months the Vatican has appointed eight priests who are authorised to perform exorcisms in Spain? This is no coincidence – nothing the Vatican does ever is. For some time now, the Church has been concerned about the proliferation of groups or sects throughout the country. There are currently sixty-eight of them, divided into four categories. The A groups are relatively benign collectives, which neither physically abuse nor extort money from members. Groups B and C are financially, psychologically and physically abusive; their methods include forced prostitution, the trafficking of drugs, weapons and children, using women as slaves … And then there is group D, which combines the worst attributes of groups B and C, but with an added dimension. Group D is made up of Satanists; they commit violence or murder, not for profit but as an offering or sacrifice to the devil. Some of their false prophets came over here as immigrants, bringing with them practices such as voodoo, Santería, and other rituals that are traditional in their own countries; others saw their chance during times of economic and moral crisis to make money out of preying on people’s despair and their desire for riches.

 

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