Offering to the Storm

by Dolores Redondo

  ‘I’m at Jonan’s apartment,’ she said.

  ‘Another search?’

  ‘No, they’ve finished. The family was given permission to go in this morning, and they asked if I could call the cleaners. I’m waiting for them now.’

  ‘Are you there alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, don’t worry, they’ll be here in a minute, and then I’ll leave,’ she said, without taking her eye off the scrap of fabric. ‘I have to go now.’

  She ended the call, rummaging on the sideboard for an envelope. She found one, emptied out the junk mail, and placed the piece of material carefully inside. Then she noticed what looked like a pattern, a letter possibly, repeated at intervals along the tiny strand. Although no expert, she could see that it was clearly of fine quality. She folded the envelope, put it away in her bag, then set about inspecting the curtains and other surfaces. Besides the fingerprint powder, she found nothing. The forensic team had been thorough; the strand of fabric was doubtless insignificant, it could have been there for ages, disguised by the colour of the curtains.

  She left the cleaners, shrouded in white overalls and masks, and headed for the Beloso police station.

  Five minutes with Clemos was enough to confirm her worst fears. He was happy as a pig in muck. He explained briefly the information Iriarte had already given her about the gun’s origins, and, despite her insistence that they should continue following other lines of inquiry, and his assurances that they would, she was convinced the investigation would now be focused in one direction.

  She asked, disdainfully, whether they had found any evidence linking Etxaide with this type of criminal gang, but Clemos didn’t rise to the bait, replying that it was only a question of time.

  She excused herself for a moment, borrowed a sheet of paper from a printer on an empty desk, as well as a pair of scissors, and ducked into the toilets on the second floor. Once inside, she plucked some gloves from her bag and put them on, then took out the envelope containing the fabric. She cut off a tiny strand, which she placed back in the envelope, and carefully folded the remainder inside the sheet of paper. She left the toilets and went to find Clemos again.

  ‘This morning, Deputy Inspector Etxaide’s family asked me to let the cleaners into his apartment. While I was waiting for them, I opened the window, and this bit of fabric floated off the curtain; I checked, and it doesn’t appear to match any other material in the house,’ she said, handing him the envelope.

  ‘You should have called the technicians.’

  ‘You’re kidding me! If I hadn’t been there this would have been destroyed by the cleaners. It could be evidence. I followed the correct procedure.’

  ‘Did you take photographs?’ he asked, irritated.

  ‘Yes, I’ve just emailed them to you.’

  Clemos snatched the envelope.

  ‘Thanks,’ he grunted. ‘I’m sure it’ll turn out to be nothing.’

  Amaia started towards the exit without bothering to reply.

  She left the building, got into her car and called Dr Takchenko.

  ‘Doctor, are you still in Pamplona?’

  ‘Yes, but not for long, I just finished giving my talk. I’ll be leaving for Huesca around noon.’

  ‘Could we meet? I have something for you.’

  ‘Sure, I’m at a café in …’ there was a pause while she looked for the name of the street: ‘Calle Monasterio de Iratxe. Can you come here?’

  ‘I’ll be ten minutes.’

  The meeting was hurried. Dr Takchenko was keen to get back in time to have lunch with her husband. Amaia kicked herself for not having realised that the chic café was close to the courthouse, making it the haunt of judges and lawyers.

  As they were leaving, the doctor asked: ‘Inspector, do you know that woman? She hasn’t taken her eyes off you since you came in.’

  Amaia turned around, only to encounter the furtive gaze of Inma Herranz, who was drinking coffee with two other women at the bar. She cursed the coincidence.

  Dr Takchenko liked her German car. Her husband teased her about her obsession with safety, but it was true that her choice had been influenced not by the luxurious appearance of the vehicle, but rather by its security features, which made it one of the safest models on the road. She loved driving on motorways, but not in cities, especially ones she didn’t know. Upon leaving the café with the envelope Inspector Salazar had given her, she had intended to head straight for Huesca. And yet, she had spent the last quarter of an hour driving round in circles, finally resorting to a good old-fashioned map to find the address her satnav had been unable to locate. After avoiding by a whisker a collision with a bus, and having to put up with the horn blasts of an irate taxi driver, Dr Takchenko finally pulled up outside the offices of an express courier service. She left her warning lights on and hurried inside. Placing the envelope Amaia had given her into another, she handed it to the middle-aged man behind the counter.

  ‘I want this delivered direct to this address.’

  Then she climbed back into her German car and continued on her way.

  41

  Amaia spent the rest of the afternoon carefully examining the files Jonan had sent her. She paid special attention to the file on Inma Herranz, poring over the photographs of her and Yolanda Berrueta. In one close-up, she could see the sweat glistening on Yolanda’s face. She wondered what possible relationship she could have with Inma Herranz. They didn’t look like they were friends; in every single image Yolanda was talking while Herranz listened patiently. Yolanda herself had told her how she’d moved heaven and earth to find someone who would listen to her; it wasn’t difficult to imagine her accosting Herranz after discovering that she was the personal assistant of a magistrate. She would have to look into it.

  Her phone rang. It was him.

  ‘I want to see you.’

  As she looked away from the screen, Amaia noticed that her eyes were tired and she had a headache coming on. Even so, she smiled as she replied: ‘Me too.’

  ‘Then, come here.’

  ‘Will you cook for me again?’

  ‘I’ll cook for you, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘Yes, that too.’

  Iriarte called seconds after she had parked outside Markina’s house.

  ‘Inspector. I think you’d better come to Elizondo. Inés Ballarena and her daughter went to visit the girl’s grave at the cemetery this afternoon, and they realised immediately something wasn’t right. The flowers and wreaths left during the funeral were in disarray, as if someone had moved them; they informed the gravedigger, who called us. It looks as if the tomb has been tampered with. I’m on my way over there now …’

  Markina was uncorking a bottle of wine when the phone rang. He listened as Amaia explained her reasons for not coming, apologising and adding that she didn’t know how long she might be. As soon as she hung up, he hit speed-dial. His face had clouded.

  ‘I’ve just been informed that the Esparza family tomb has been desecrated. The mother and grandmother noticed something wasn’t right. The Navarre police are on their way there now. What have you to say about this?’

  His anger mounted as he listened to the response. After hanging up, he hurled the phone across the room hitting the bottle of wine, which shattered, spilling its contents over the countertop.

  Amaia parked outside the cemetery gates. Considering it was nighttime, the place was well lit. She could see Iriarte, Montes and Zabalza, as well as a couple of cemetery workers, standing with Inés, her daughter Sonia, and the old amatxi. Despite the cold and the late hour, the three women appeared astonishingly calm. They remained silent while Iriarte repeated what he’d already told her over the phone. Amaia looked at the tomb, which was covered in wreaths and bouquets, then addressed the women:

  ‘What looks different? And why are you here this late? It’s freezing outside.’

  ‘We came to put candles on the grave,’ explained the old amatxi
. ‘To light the girl’s way.’ She pointed to a pair of candles flickering at the base of the tomb.

  Inés Ballarena stepped forward.

  ‘You must excuse my mother. It’s an old custom in Baztán. They light candles …’

  ‘… to help the dead find their way in the dark,’ said Amaia. ‘My aunt is acquainted with that custom too, she told me about it.’

  ‘Well,’ Inés went on, ‘as you can see, people sent lots of flowers. After the tomb was sealed, we arranged them in order of size, and the bouquets at the front … They’re all mixed up now, as you can see, as if someone had taken them off and put them back any old how. Also but some of the wreaths are facing the wrong way, so you can’t read the tributes. I can assure you, I was careful to place them the right way round.’

  ‘The right way round,’ whispered Amaia. Then she addressed the gravedigger:

  ‘Have any repairs been carried out in this part of the cemetery, or has there been a recent burial in any of the adjacent tombs that might have required moving these wreaths?’

  The fellow frowned at her, and shook his head slowly. She had spoken to him in the past, and knew he was a man of few words.

  ‘Could this be a prank? Kids breaking into the cemetery and moving some of the flowers for a joke,’ she suggested.

  The gravedigger cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but I hadn’t finished …’

  She glanced at Montes, who rolled his eyes. Grinning, she gestured for the man to carry on.

  ‘The slab has been moved, at least five centimetres,’ he said, placing two stout fingers between the slab and the side of the tomb.

  ‘Could it have been replaced incorrectly during the funeral?’ she asked, introducing her own fingers into the gap.

  ‘Certainly not. It’s my job to ensure that the slabs are properly positioned, because of the rain, you see. Otherwise, all these tombs would fill up with water … Not only that, but the stone is more likely to get damaged if it isn’t in the right place. I can assure you that after the funeral, that slab was in the proper position,’ the man declared emphatically.

  Montes went over to the stone and tried to move it, in vain.

  ‘You won’t get anywhere like that,’ the other employee said. ‘To move a slab, you need a jemmy and a couple of iron bars.’

  Amaia turned to Inés Ballarena and her daughter. They both looked at the old amatxi, then all three declared as one:

  ‘Open it.’

  Amaia looked at the gravedigger:

  ‘You heard what the ladies said. Open it.’

  The two men took a few minutes to fetch the jemmy and the iron bars, while everyone else helped to shift the wreaths and bouquets. As the other man had explained, the method was simple. They levered the stone high enough to slide the iron bars underneath, then rolled it back. As soon as the tomb was open, they all shone flashlights inside. In addition to the little girl’s casket, they saw two decaying coffins at the back. The gravedigger lowered a metal ladder into the tomb and descended, taking with him a smaller jemmy. He soon discovered he had no need of it, for the baby’s coffin was wide open. And although they could all see, he looked up at them and said:

  ‘It’s empty.’

  ‘Oh my God, in the end he took her! He came back and took our daughter!’

  With that, Sonia Esparza fell to the ground.

  42

  Strangely, though she hadn’t felt Jonan’s presence in his own apartment, in the police station she felt his absence so keenly it was as if he were right there; she could even identify the space he was occupying. Jonan, who had vanished bequeathing her a legacy of intrigue and suspicions. Jonan and all the things around him that had driven him to conduct a parallel, secret investigation. Jonan, his reasons and motives. Jonan spying on her …

  Had he mistrusted her? No, if so, he wouldn’t have sent her the file on the day of his funeral! And how had he arranged that? She recalled Jonan’s words to Marc, betraying his fear. Jonan and the mysterious password he had left for her.

  ‘Oh, Jonan, what the hell have you done?’

  She could see where Clemos and Internal Affairs were coming from; much as she hated to admit it, if she’d been in their shoes and hadn’t known Jonan, she would have been suspicious. But she did; this was Jonan – even the password he had chosen to deliver his file to her was proof of his integrity. And yet this legacy was becoming too much for her to shoulder alone. Because he had sent the file to her, she felt she would be betraying Etxaide’s last wish if she came clean about it. At the same time, not knowing whom to confide in was making her extremely anxious. She trusted Montes, she knew he would stand by her; she had her doubts about Zabalza, but the biggest headache was Iriarte. He clearly felt uneasy when confronted with things that were beyond his comprehension, such as Elena Ochoa’s death. All those stories of empty coffins were a far cry from what a no-nonsense policeman like him would consider normal. For Iriarte, doing things by the book was a religion, and what she was planning to tell them, and, more importantly, to ask of them would bring them into direct conflict with the official investigation being carried out by the team in Pamplona. Gazing mournfully at the fog rolling down the mountainside, she missed Jonan more than ever, feeling his presence so intensely all of a sudden that she spun round expecting to find him there.

  Deputy Inspector Zabalza was standing in the doorway holding a mug, which he raised in front of him, as if to explain himself.

  ‘I thought you might like a coffee.’

  She looked at him, then at the mug. Jonan always used to bring her coffee … What did this fool think he was doing? She felt her eyes prick with tears, and she turned back to the window so he wouldn’t see them.

  ‘Leave it on the desk,’ she replied, ‘and please tell Montes and Iriarte I want you all in here in ten minutes. I have something to tell you.’

  He left the room without saying a word.

  Iriarte brought a couple of files with him, and read aloud from his notes.

  ‘We’ve established that the last time the Ballarena family visited the cemetery prior to noticing that the tomb had been tampered with was the previous afternoon. We don’t know for sure, but anyone breaking into the tomb would probably have done so under cover of darkness, which means that night. As you know, we’ve alerted the highway patrol and set up routine traffic controls, but so far without any result.’

  Montes spoke next:

  ‘I’ve talked to the family again. The young mother is still in shock, but Inés was calmer. She reckons someone knew about Valentín’s intentions and carried them out for him, although she understands perfectly why her daughter believes that her husband has come back from the grave. The old amatxi has the most original take on it. She claims she isn’t surprised; reckons Inguma took her. I quote: “She died for him, our little girl was an offering.”’

  Amaia looked up. ‘Did she use the word “offering”?’

  ‘She’s an old woman,’ said Iriarte, assuming Amaia was puzzled by the old lady’s choice of words.

  ‘We’ve also spoken to Valentín Esparza’s relatives,’ Montes went on. ‘They all have an alibi for the period in question, and appear horrified by what has happened, but also somewhat indignant about being questioned. They’ve hired a lawyer.’

  Amaia rose to her feet once more and went over to the window, as though hoping to find some inspiration in the fog now shrouding the entire valley.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll all agree with me that the disappearance of the Esparza girl reopens the case. There’s something I want to show you,’ she said, turning towards her desk. She removed some printed images from an envelope and spread them out on the table. ‘You may remember that around the time Jonan died, I was waiting for him to send us the enlargements of the photographs he took in Ainhoa, on the night Yolanda Berrueta blew up her children’s tomb. Well, that’s what these are. Jonan must have left them at my house in Pamplona, I found them in my mailbox yesterday.’

  Iriarte’s reac
tion took her by surprise.

  ‘He left them at your house? That’s completely out of order. Why would he do that, why not email them to you at the police station?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she dissembled. ‘Maybe he wanted me to look at the details of the enlargements—’

  ‘We’ll need to inform Internal Affairs and Clemos about this immediately.’

  ‘I already did, this morning. However, as head of homicide, I consider these photographs to be evidence connected to the case we’re working on; I don’t see any reason not to resume the investigation.’

  Iriarte seemed satisfied, although he looked askance at the photographs.

  ‘What you see in front of you are enlargements of the inside of the tomb in Ainhoa. Besides the two adult coffins, there are three other coffins. As you know, the remains of Yolanda Berrueta’s two sons were found inside the tomb. However, Jonan was interested in the third coffin …’ she said, pointing to the small metal casket in the fresh batch of photographs she spread out in front of them. ‘And, above all, its contents. By enlarging the photos and comparing them, he was able to establish that the bag inside the casket, which we assumed contained ashes, was in fact a bag of sugar.’

  ‘Fuck!’ exclaimed Montes. ‘Who was supposed to be in there?’

  ‘Yolanda Berrueta and Marcel Tremond’s first child, a baby girl, born one year before her two sons, who died aged two weeks at Yolanda’s parents’ house in Oieregi. Guess what from?’

  ‘Cot death,’ breathed Iriarte.

  ‘Cot death,’ she repeated. ‘And there’s more. Both Yolanda’s father and the funeral director in Oieregi are willing to swear that the girl wasn’t cremated. That her body was inside that casket.’

  ‘I doubt Judge Gouvenain will authorise us to look inside the tomb again, but I could speak to the police chief and ask him to check.’