In Elizondo, when it rained or when the snow and ice melted, the water knew where to go. When she was a little girl, she liked going outside after the rain had stopped, to listen to the sound of water dripping from the eaves, running between the cobblestones, sliding over the sodden leaves and down the black tree trunks, returning to the river, which, like a distant, primordial creature beckoned its children to join once more the ancient stream from whence they came. The wet ground would glisten with the light that shone through the parting clouds, making each trickle glow silver as the water found its way back to the river. But here the water had no mother, it didn’t know where to go, so it oozed onto the streets like spilled blood.
She saw a huddle of people smoking outside a bar, and thought she recognised someone entering with another group. Then she heard her name, and wheeled round in surprise as she recognised Markina’s voice. He was walking towards her from his car, which was parked outside the building she’d just left. She had noticed him among the funeral guests, but he looked different now, younger somehow. He was wearing jeans, and a pea jacket. She came to a halt in the middle of the street and waited for him to draw level with her.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, then instantly regretted it.
‘Waiting for you.’
‘For me?’
He nodded. ‘I wanted to talk to you, and I knew you’d be coming here …’
‘You could have called.’
‘I didn’t want to say this over the phone,’ he said, walking right up to her, so they were almost touching. ‘Amaia, I’m so sorry about Jonan, I know you had a special relationship …’
Overcome with emotion, she bit her lip and looked away, towards the distant lights on the avenue.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘To hail a taxi, I guess.’
‘I can drop you off,’ he said, gesturing towards his car. ‘Where do you want to go?’
She paused, then said, ‘For a drink.’
He suggested the bar opposite.
‘… No, not there,’ she said, remembering the group of people that had just gone inside. The last thing she wanted was to have to engage in social chit-chat, or trot out clichéd responses to even more clichéd condolences.
‘I know the perfect place,’ he said, pressing the remote on his car key.
Her face must have reflected her astonishment as he pulled up outside the Tres Reyes Hotel in the centre of town.
‘Don’t look so surprised; it has a wonderful English bar where they make the best gin and tonics in town. It also has the advantage of being patronised mostly by people from out of town. I come here when I want a quiet drink and don’t care to bump into anyone I know.’
Markina was probably right; in all the years she had lived in Pamplona, she couldn’t recall once having set foot inside the hotel lobby.
‘You should know, Inspector. Hotel bars are the traditional place for business deals, shady or otherwise, as well as the perfect setting for discreet encounters.’
Eschewing the low tables dotted about the room, she headed for the row of stools by the bar, and sat with her back to the room. The place was sufficiently crowded for them not to stand out, but quiet enough for them to hold a conversation without having to shout. At the far end of the room, a discreet jazz quartet played popular tunes. The barman slid a couple of coasters in front of them and handed them the gin-and-tonic menu, listing a dozen different combinations, which Amaia passed over.
‘I think I’ll stick with whisky. That’s what they were serving at Jonan’s parents’ house,’ she explained. ‘I don’t even know if there was anything else to drink. A pretty girl passed round a tray of glasses, like at an Irish wake.’
‘Two whiskies, then,’ Markina said to the bartender.
‘Macallan’s,’ she added.
‘Excellent choice, madam,’ the man replied politely. ‘Did you know that in 2010 a sixty-four-year-old bottle of Macallan’s sold at Sotheby’s for four hundred thousand six hundred dollars?’
‘I hope it wasn’t this one,’ she joked, as she watched the ceremony with which the bartender decanted the whisky into two glasses. Markina picked them up and handed one to her.
‘So, let’s continue in the Irish tradition and drink a toast to him.’
She raised her glass and drank, feeling relieved and confused at the same time. She knew that this was partly due to Markina being there with her and having to acknowledge that, aside from the nightmare going on around her, part of her recent sorrow was because he was angry with her. She worried that she had lost the tenuous link that somehow bound them, that she had disappointed him, and would never see that inimical smile of his again. He was telling her that he had once been to an Irish wake, describing how sad yet moving it was to see all those people celebrate the life of the deceased. He explained why a wake traditionally lasted three days: according to legend, there was no better way of finding out if the deceased was suffering from catalepsy, or pretending to be dead, for no Irish man or woman could listen to the sound of their friends revelling around them for three days without rising from their coffin. It was an amusing story, and as he spoke, she found herself contemplating once more the contours of his mouth, the tip of his tongue licking the whisky from his lips, the timbre of his voice, his hands cupping the glass …
‘I never imagined you drinking whisky,’ he remarked.
‘While they were doing the autopsy, we waited in San Martín’s office. He took out a bottle, and we all had a glass … I don’t know, I’d never really thought about the custom of drinking a toast to the dead; it wasn’t planned, but we did it. And then, at his parents’ house today, more whisky. It has something, I’m not sure what, an amazing sedative quality. It allows you to remain lucid, while dulling the pain,’ she said, shuddering as she took another sip.
‘You don’t seem to like it much.’
‘I don’t.’ She smiled. ‘I just like the way it makes me feel. And I understand why the Irish associate the taste with death. Each fiery mouthful is like taking communion, it leaves you purified, healed inside.’ She lowered her gaze, falling silent for a few seconds. She hated this ebb and flow of tears; just when she thought she was in control, her grief would rise like a tsunami, and as she struggled to hold back the flood she had the impression she was drowning.
She felt Markina’s hand on hers, and the contact with his firm grasp, his warm skin, produced a magnetic charge that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and helped her to collect herself. She pulled her hand free, dissimulating as she picked up her glass and drained it. Markina signalled to the bartender, who came over cradling the bottle of Macallan’s as one might a baby.
‘Everything feels so unreal. For example, you’re the last person I would have expected to end up having a drink with tonight,’ she said, when the bartender had gone.
‘When are you going to stop being so formal and use the familiar “tu” with me?’ he said.
‘I suppose when you decide whether to call me Salazar, Inspector or Amaia – the sucker who made a fool of you.’ She blurted the reproach without thinking. She was tired, and probably a little drunk, but most of all she wasn’t in the mood for pretence. But, when she saw the look of dismay on his face, she instantly regretted her outspokenness.
‘Amaia … I’m sorry, I—’
‘No,’ she broke in. ‘I’m the one who is sorry. Truly sorry.’ She looked straight at him. ‘Not because of Judge De Gouvenain or her complaints against me, I’m sorry because of Yolanda Berrueta, and because of you.’ He was sitting perfectly still, listening in silence. ‘You trusted me, you opened up to me about your mother, and I more than anyone know how difficult that is. I decided to approach De Gouvenain because I genuinely believed I was on to something. I didn’t go behind your back because I thought you were indecisive or overly sensitive about the subject – even though you clearly are.’
He arched an eyebrow, grinning faintly.
H
e could have kissed her then and there.
‘You wanted solid evidence, which I believed I would find inside that tomb in Ainhoa. It turns out I was mistaken, but even so – and this is something Jonan Etxaide made me see – Judge De Gouvenain would never have issued the order unless she thought there were sufficient grounds.’
‘This is behind us, Amaia,’ he whispered.
‘No, it isn’t. Not if you still think that I intentionally went over your head.’
‘I don’t think that,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Completely,’ he said, giving her that smile.
It was the calmness of his smile that enchanted her, the way he looked straight at her, the perfect beauty of the gesture, which he seemed to be performing afresh each time, and yet she could recreate every detail of it in her mind’s eye. She realised this was what she feared losing, what she couldn’t bear to lose. She glanced at his mouth again, then slid her gaze towards the glass, wondering as she drank from it how often a sip of whisky replaced a kiss.
She realised that she was drunk when at three in the morning the music in the bar stopped. The alcohol had worked like a soothing balm, covering her wounds with a warm blanket, putting to sleep those ferocious beasts tearing at her heart, overpowering them with the magic of eighteen years in an oak barrel. She knew this would be a brief respite, that when the beasts awoke it would start again, but for a few hours at least she had rid herself of this weight squeezing the air out of her lungs, smothering her. Most of the customers had left long ago. She spoke above all about Jonan, letting herself think tender thoughts, freed from the image of him on the floor, his hands resting in a pool of blood, his lifeless face. Remembering how they first met, how he had earned her respect. She smiled faintly as she recalled how squeamish he was about touching dead bodies, his encyclopaedic knowledge of criminal history. The tears returned, and she held them back as she talked, her tongue loosened by the whisky; even so, she turned her head slightly, avoiding the gaze of the barman, who, a seasoned professional, was standing discreetly at the far end of the bar, busily polishing glasses.
Markina listened in silence, nodding when appropriate, signalling to the waiter to refill their glasses, although his remained untouched. Later on, she would remember the mirror running the length of the bar, the strategically placed lights setting ablaze the amber tones of the various whiskies, the rows of shiny glasses, the odd word, and Markina’s eyes. Gradually the fog descended over everything, and her memories became hazy. They were leaving the bar when it started to snow again, but the flakes were tiny and wet, like frozen raindrops. No, not those snowflakes the size of rose petals, those surreal-looking ones that had made the world stand still. She gazed up at the streetlamp, watching the swirling flakes swirl like a swarming mass pricking her eyes, longing for a snowfall that could bury her, smother her pain. Then, all of a sudden, those falling snowflakes roused the slumbering beasts that fed off her grief, for whom denial was no longer enough; in that moment the amber balm that had soothed them wore off, and they renewed their attack, more ferocious and cruel than ever.
Markina stood by his car, observing her. She was watching the snowfall as though witnessing a miracle. Standing beneath the streetlamp, her face wet from the flakes that turned to water as they touched her skin, while, oblivious, she gazed up at the sky with infinite sorrow. He made his way slowly to her, giving her time, waiting. After a few minutes, he placed a hand on her shoulder, and guided her to the car. As Amaia turned, he could see, mixed with the melted snow, tears streaming down her face. He spread his arms, offering her the solace she needed, and she buried herself in his embrace, as if it were the place she’d always been looking for. Then she started to sob, uncontrollably, abandoning herself, letting out great gasps as he tried to contain with his embrace the grief tearing at her insides, making her tremble as if she might fall apart. Holding her tight, he let her weep, vanquished.
38
She could hear nothing. The world had been plunged into a deafening, dreamlike silence. She opened her eyes and saw big, crisp, heavy, snowflakes burying her, dampening every sound save for her heart, which kept beating slowly as the snow fell on her, clogging up her eyes, her nose her mouth. Then, noticing the powdery, earthy taste of raw dough, she realised this wasn’t snow at all, but white powder which a remorseless killer was throwing over her to bury her alive in the kneading trough.
‘I don’t want to die,’ she thought.
‘I don’t want to die!’ she cried out, and the cry in her dream brought her back.
She tried to open her eyes and found the lids were sticky from crying herself to sleep. It took her a few seconds to remember the room she had just woken up in. Turning instinctively towards the light seeping through the slats of a blind someone had left tilted, she made out a tall window with a long white curtain. As she attempted to sit up, a sharp pain in her head brought her back to reality. She waited for the throbbing to subside. Throwing aside the covers, she placed her bare feet on the carpeted floor, only to realise that, apart from her boots and socks, which lay next to the bed, she was fully dressed. She looked around for her gun, and was relieved to find it on the bedside table. She stumbled over to the window, pulling up the blind and letting the dull morning light enter the room. The gigantic bed she had slept in dominated the room. Two bedside tables stood either side of it, and at the foot was a heavy piece of antique furniture, gleaming in the dim light, which served as a stand for a large painting. She climbed back into bed, running her hand through her matted hair as she remembered the events of the previous evening.
She had never cried like that before; her chest and back still ached, as if there were a hollow, an open wound between her spine and breastbone, a gash in the lining of her lung, through which both air and life had escaped. Yet she didn’t care; she felt proud of the stabbing pains in her chest. She remembered that he had consoled her, embraced her when she broke down in tears, when she cursed the universe, which had singled her out once more, placing her at the centre of things, making her feel small and fearful again. But he was there. She didn’t remember him saying a single word, he simply held her in his arms and let her cry, without lying to her, trying to stop her tears by promising her that everything would be all right, that it soon would pass, that the pain would go away. The vivid memory of his embrace brought back the feel of his taut skin covering his sinewy frame, holding her together as she dissolved. She remembered his scent, the perfume emanating from his coarse wool jacket, his skin, his hair. Unconsciously, she reached for the white pillows, drawing them to her face, breathing in, searching longingly for his smell, his warmth, reliving the sensation of his arms about her, his body, his hands caressing her hair as she buried her face in his neck, in a pointless attempt to hide her tears from him.
Checking her watch, she saw that it was almost seven. She replaced the pillows, cursing the smattering of make-up she had worn yesterday – enough to leave a dark smudge on the pristine white surface of the pillow. She took a quick shower, displeased by the thought of having to wear the same clothes she had slept in, and, without drying her hair, she left the bedroom.
The kitchen was open-plan, and there were no curtains at the windows; from every angle there was a view over the garden. The lawn was a dark shade of green, flattened by the previous days’ snow, now melted in the light rain. Markina was sipping coffee on a high stool at the kitchen counter and browsing the newspapers. He was barefoot, in jeans and a white shirt, half-unbuttoned, and his hair was also damp. When he saw her, he smiled and folded away the newspaper, which he left on the counter.
‘Good morning, how are you feeling today?’
‘Fine,’ she said, without much conviction.
‘And your head?’
‘Nothing an aspirin won’t fix.’
‘What about everything else?’ he asked, his smile fading.
‘I don’t think that can ever be fixed. Which is the way it should be. I wanted to thank you
for being there for me last night.’ He shook his head as she spoke. ‘And … for giving up your bed,’ she added, gesturing towards the sofa, strewn with pillows and a blanket.
He grinned, looking at her in that way which always made her think he knew something she didn’t.
‘What’s so funny?’ she asked.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he replied.
She glanced about, as if to confirm the fact. Yes, she was there, she had slept in his bed, she was having breakfast with him. He was half-dressed, her hair was wet. And yet, something was missing from the equation. She smiled into her coffee, cradling the cup in both hands.
‘Are you going to the courthouse today?’
‘Perhaps, later this morning. I have to catch up on some reading here at home,’ he said, pointing to a stack of papers on the table. ‘And you?’
She thought for a moment.
‘I’m not sure. I’m not working on any case, so I guess I’ll do some paperwork, then check if they’ve made any progress on the investigation into Jonan’s murder.’
‘You could come back here afterwards …’ said Markina, looking straight at her. He wasn’t smiling, although there was a plaintive note in his voice.
She studied him. The half-unbuttoned shirt revealing the outline of his collarbone beneath his tanned skin, the designer stubble extending from his neck to his cheeks, his face, always youthful-looking, and his eyes, that amused determination she found so attractive. She desired him. This hadn’t happened overnight. Crazy though it seemed, his game of seduction had worked; he’d managed to get into her head in a way that took over everything.
Offering to the Storm Page 29