Offering to the Storm
Page 28
‘The Church must take some responsibility for having failed to adapt to the needs of its congregation, many of whom have turned away from God; you only need step inside a church in any city on a weekday to see that. Most people nowadays describe themselves as secular, agnostic, or even atheist. And yet nothing could be further from the truth. Since the beginning of time, man has been seeking God, because in doing so he is seeking himself. Man is incapable of renouncing his spiritual nature; much as he professes to the contrary, sooner or later he will follow a dogma, a doctrine, an existential system that will guide his life, provide a formula for happiness, and protection against the emptiness of the universe and the finality of death. Whether they are atheists or practice Santería, whether they are mere consumers or followers of whatever cult or fashion, human beings all want the same thing: to live a perfect, harmonious life. One way or another, they are looking for a kind of purity, protection, a formula to keep them safe from the dangers of the world. Most people go through life without harming anyone, but occasionally their search leads them into the hands of evil. Sects that promise to rid them of incurable illnesses, to give them work, money, business, a home, protection from their enemies – imagined or real – but free from the constraints imposed by the Church. It is good to covet, to envy, to possess at any price, to give rein to greed, anger, revenge; they provide a playground for man’s basest instincts.’
Amaia heard him out, but she was becoming impatient.
‘I understand what you say, Father, but what has this to do with Deputy Inspector Etxaide’s murder?’
‘Possibly nothing,’ he admitted. ‘But a respected psychiatrist, a member of my clinical team, turned out to be the instigator of a series of monstrous crimes. Berasategui planned and carried out his activities over a long period. I understand that the tarttalo’s crimes date back to a decade ago. Berasategui must have left university around that time.’
Amaia listened, resisting the urge to prompt or ask questions.
‘Is it any wonder that this investigation of yours has me alarmed? First you come to consult me about a demon that kills people in their sleep, then it transpires that Berasategui was connected both to Esparza, who murdered his own daughter, and to your mother, who planned to do the same to your son. And now one of the detectives working on the case has been murdered.’
He fell silent, waiting for her to speak. She thought about her twin’s empty coffin, debating whether to tell him about it.
‘Father Sarasola,’ she said at last. ‘Why do I have the impression that, despite everything you’ve told me, you are holding something back?’
He acknowledged with a nod, then continued: ‘As you are aware, Navarre has always been important. A land of saints and a pillar of the Church, but also, and perhaps for those very reasons, the presence of evil has been constant throughout the centuries. I’m not just referring to the work of the Inquisition, to witch doctors and faith healers, but to the monstrous crimes which inspired the myths that have been handed down to us. Witchcraft and satanic practices such as human sacrifice aren’t a thing of the past. Three years ago, a man walked into a police station in Madrid accompanied by his lawyer; he said that he could no longer live with his conscience and wished to make a confession. He told the police that in 1979 he had been one of the founding members of a sect based at a farmhouse in the Navarre municipality of Lesaka.’
Amaia pricked up her ears at the mention of that name, recalling her first meeting with Elena Ochoa.
‘The sect was run by a leader who described himself as a psychologist or psychiatrist. Although he didn’t live at the farmhouse, he would pay regular visits. According to the man’s testimony, the sect indulged in traditional witchcraft, invoking ancestral beings. During their ceremonies and covens, as he called them, they sacrificed animals, mostly lambs and cocks, as well as holding orgies and rituals during which they would smear themselves with blood and even drink it. A few months after he joined, one of the couples gave birth to a baby girl. According to the witness’s statement, the parents gave up their child to the sect as the highest form of sacrifice. The girl was a few days old when they slaughtered her in a satanic ritual as an offering to the devil. The witness gave a detailed description of how they took the girl’s life in a horrific ceremony during which every kind of depravity was perpetrated. Not long afterwards, the sect disbanded, and the members went to live in different parts of the country. Among those involved were lawyers, doctors, even a teacher – many of them parents themselves. A magistrate based in Pamplona is in charge of the case.’
‘That’s impossible!’ she said emphatically. ‘I know about every ongoing homicide investigation in this city.’
‘As I said, the witness’s original statement was taken in Madrid. The case was referred to Pamplona because the alleged crime was committed in Navarre, and the magistrate in charge placed an immediate confidentiality order on the case, due to the delicate nature of the matter, not to mention the possible backlash against those implicated were the details to be made public. Above all, there was concern for the safety of the man who reported the case, who is currently under the protection of both the police and the Church.’
Amaia listened in astonishment. Sarasola made her feel like a complete novice. How could he be aware of a homicide case about which she knew nothing? A stream of images flashed through her mind: a baby girl, barely a toddler, dressed in rags as she crawled across the field between Argi Beltz and Lau Haizeta; her own mother slipping out of the house at night to attend those meetings; her Amatxi Juanita weeping as she sang to her; the death certificates destroyed by Fina Hidalgo, and the midwife offering walnuts to her with that twisted grin; her sister’s coffin, empty save for a bag of gravel; the dark, silky hair escaping from that rucksack on the ground outside the funeral parlour; Elena Ochoa’s body surrounded by a pool of blood, the walnut shells and the scent of death emanating from her still-warm body.
‘Did they find the child’s body?’ she whispered.
‘No. The witness doesn’t know what happened to it, whether it was buried in the woods or somewhere else. All he can say for sure is that they took it away.’
She tried hard to push aside the images that kept running through her head as though playing on an old projector. She looked straight at Sarasola as she collected her thoughts.
‘I know of an almost identical story, which took place at a farmhouse in Baztán. The parents made up the perfect alibi, and the crime was never investigated.’
‘Yes,’ said the priest. ‘At the farmhouse where Berasategui held his bereavement therapy groups; she was a little girl too, and that was in the year …’
‘In the year I was born,’ she finished Sarasola’s sentence for him.
37
Jonan’s parents lived in a tiny attic apartment, which, to compensate for the reduced floor space, boasted a roof terrace extending across the entire building. It overlooked the dark, illuminated city, glowing amid the whiteness, and although the snow had started to melt, it lay pristine on the balcony. Soft music was playing in the background, and a young woman had given Amaia a glass of whisky, which she downed without a word. Jonan’s parents stood surrounded by a group of relatives who never once left their side. The father had his arm round his wife’s shoulders, and, every now and then she would press her head to his chest in a small, intimate gesture of complete trust. Most of the guests were young. What had she expected? His mother had told her this would be a gathering of friends. They beckoned to her as soon as they saw her and she went over, leaving her glass on a table. Both parents embraced her.
‘Thank you for coming, Inspector.’
‘Please, call me Amaia,’ she replied.
‘All right, Amaia,’ his mother said, smiling. ‘Thank you.’
‘Jonan had great admiration and respect for you,’ said his father, solemnly.
The words of the man from Internal Affairs came back to her: ‘Did you authorise him to access your computer?’
She dropped the hairbrush and ran into the bathroom. Holding her hair away from her face, she threw up in the toilet. Once the nausea had passed, she gazed at her distorted reflection in the mirror, her eyes watering from the exertion. She turned on the tap, washed her face and cleaned her teeth.
‘It’s impossible,’ she said to her image in the glass. And then she had left that house which was threatening to engulf her …
As the soothing effect of the second whisky spread through her, she felt relatively normal for the first time in days. When she returned to the sitting room, Montes and Zabalza had arrived and were greeting Etxaide’s parents. Iriarte took her to one side.
‘What do you think?’ She knew he was referring to the theory put forward by the men from Internal Affairs, and she assumed he’d been discussing it with the others.
‘I think they’re wrong, Iriarte. I want them to be wrong,’ she said, lowering her voice.
‘I do too,’ he said. ‘But it makes sense: if he accessed your computer that day, he could have seen the search warrant.’
‘Not necessarily, he might have accessed it for a different reason.’
‘Without your permission?’
‘For God’s sake! He knew my every move, he didn’t need my permission.’
‘Even to look at your personal emails?’
‘Enough!’ she said, in an over-loud voice, then, glancing about, murmured, ‘I’m as confused as you, but we’re here as his friends to honour his memory. Let’s discuss this tomorrow.’
Iriarte picked up one of the glasses the young woman was passing around, and drifted towards the centre of the room. Montes took his place.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘Okay, he accessed your computer, we can’t deny the facts, but not … You know what he was like about computers, he probably wanted to install an anti-virus, or some other gadget,’ he said, trying to make light of it.
Amaia nodded, unconvinced. ‘I don’t want to talk about this now.’
‘I can understand why, but don’t be annoyed with Iriarte – you know how persuasive those guys from Internal Affairs can be when they get the bit between their teeth. He’s extremely worried,’ said Montes, motioning with his chin towards Iriarte. ‘We all are,’ he added, gazing at Zabalza, who had sat down and was listening in silence, an untouched drink in his hand, to a group of Jonan’s friends, who, with sorrowful faces, were relating what seemed like an amusing anecdote.
‘Amaia!’ Jonan’s mother called her over. Next to her stood a young man whom she recognised instantly from the photograph in Jonan’s bedroom. ‘I’d like to introduce you to Jonan’s partner, Marc.’
She extended her hand, looking into his face and recognising someone in the throes of grief. His red, swollen eyes showed that he’d been crying recently, but there was nothing frail about the way he gripped her hand, as he turned away from Jonan’s mother, taking her aside
‘Marc,’ she apologised, ‘I had no idea. I feel terribly embarrassed, but I didn’t know Jonan had a partner.’
He grabbed a couple of drinks and gave one of them to her.
‘Don’t worry. He was a very private person.’
She smiled.
‘Shall we go outside?’ he suggested, motioning towards the roof terrace. She put on her coat, and they stepped onto the snow, which had started to melt and gave way beneath their feet. They walked over to the handrail, content to contemplate the city lights for a while, sipping their drinks in silence.
‘We met in Barcelona a year ago. I was planning to move here next month, you know? We would have been living together by now, but he flatly refused to give up his job, and in the end I applied for a transfer at work; luckily, they have a branch here … And now,’ he said, spreading his arms in a gesture of despair, ‘here I am, but he’s gone.’
Amaia felt a mounting rage inside her, the kind that made you want to break into a run, scream, make promises you could never keep.
‘Listen, Marc, I swear to you, I’m going to get whoever did this.’
He screwed up his eyes, struggling to hold back the tears.
‘What difference does it make? It won’t bring him back to me.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It won’t bring him back to us.’
She felt buried beneath the weight of this absolute truth she refused to accept. Huge, round tears rolled down her face, and she let out a sob that caused her whole body to shake. Marc put his arms around her, and the two of them wept unreservedly, in that way that convulses, turns you inside out, leaves your nerves exposed, in that way only grief-stricken people can cry together. They stayed like that, clinging to one another, oblivious to what anyone thought, weeping in each other’s arms, joined by an emotion that has the power to unite or isolate human beings like no other.
‘We must look like a couple of drunken sailors,’ Marc said after a while.
She laughed, wiping her face with her hand and stepping away from him as she realised they were both still holding their drinks. They raised their glasses in silence and drank.
Marc looked out again at the city lights.
‘Do you ever get the feeling after something has happened that, while it was going on, you didn’t know what it meant, and then afterwards it becomes obvious and you feel like a total idiot? As if you were going through life blindly, irresponsibly, dancing on a minefield.’
She nodded and they exchanged a look of complicity.
‘Jonan knew.’
‘What did he know?’ she asked.
‘That he was in danger. Or rather, I’m not sure he knew – maybe he just suspected.’
‘Did he tell you something?’ she asked, her pulse quickening.
‘Not exactly. Like I told you, he did and said things that at the time I didn’t notice, but which I now realise were significant. I think I would have known if he thought his life was in danger. Besides, his colleagues told me he didn’t have his gun when he opened the door, so he can’t have felt any imminent threat. But I believe he sensed something might happen to him, because he left a message for you.’
‘For me,’ she said, surprised.
‘Well, not exactly a message. About a fortnight ago he told me he was preparing something for you, and that if he couldn’t give it to you, I was to do so.’
Amaia gasped.
‘Oh my God! What did he give
you?’
Marc shook his head.
‘He didn’t give me anything; that’s why I thought nothing of it at the time. He told me to tell you a word.’
‘A word?’ she repeated, disappointed.
‘Yes, he said you’d know how to use it.’
‘What word?’
‘“Offering”.’
‘Offering. Is that all?’
‘Offering, and his number. Nothing more.’
‘Are you sure? Try to remember the context – what were you talking about at the time? Maybe he told you something beforehand?’
‘No, that’s all he said: that he had something for you, and if he couldn’t give it to you, I should remember that word, “offering”, and his number.’
She fled, or at least, so it seemed to her. She said goodbye only to Marc and to Jonan’s parents. Shivering and exhausted as she was after their crying session on the roof, she felt something close to relief, which she knew would be short-lived. As she left the apartment, she noticed Deputy Inspector Zabalza, still sitting with Jonan’s friends, his drink untouched, but now looking unusually relaxed, with a wistful smile on his face. They hadn’t exchanged two words since his attempt to stop her from entering Jonan’s apartment.
She took the lift down to the ground floor, studying her reflection in the glass, which was garishly lit. Her eyes looked a bit red, that was all; she found herself wishing she had shadows like Iriarte’s, or Zabalza’s ashen face. She wanted to parade her grief, to break down, to let go for once. She paused in the doorway, buttoning her coat, then looked both ways down the street, trying to get her bearings. She started to walk, frowning at the mounds of dirty snow that were beginning to melt in that slow, watery process that turned the pavements into puddles, and was one thing she hated about that city.