Offering to the Storm

by Dolores Redondo

  ‘There’s no point. Marcel Tremond made sure the slab was replaced the next day. According to the priest at Our Lady of the Assumption, the Tremond family was so upset they wouldn’t even allow the gravedigger to go down and clear out the rubble, or replace the upturned coffins. They ordered the tomb to be sealed without delay.’

  ‘What a bastard!’ exclaimed Montes.

  ‘You can say that again,’ Amaia concurred. ‘Yolanda’s father told me that after their baby girl died, his daughter sank into a deep depression. Her husband bullied her into getting pregnant again, against all medical advice.’

  ‘Because that way she would recover more quickly from the pain of losing the girl,’ said Iriarte.

  ‘She didn’t deal well with being pregnant again, but, as soon as her sons were born she devoted herself to them.’ Amaia paused, giving her colleagues time to assimilate all the information. ‘We’ve no way of confirming our suspicions, or of proving that the girl’s body was removed from the tomb in Ainhoa, and obtaining authorisation to reopen it is obviously out of the question. However, this new case allows us to plot a much clearer chart in and around Baztán, in the vicinity of the river,’ she said, placing a map on the table, and marking with red dots the villages close to the river as far as the border with Guipúzcoa. ‘What to do next: we need to establish a profile of the suspects’ behaviour and actions. Besides having lost a baby to cot death, what do these couples have in common? What do we know so far?’

  The three men looked at her expectantly.

  ‘One: they all lost baby girls. Two: before their babies died, the couples weren’t well off financially. Three: afterwards they all came into money. Four: in at least four instances – the two cases investigated by social services, plus those of Yolanda Berrueta and Esparza – we know that when the little girls died they were convinced that their fortunes would change.’

  She broke off.

  ‘Any observations?’

  ‘We could surmise that the couples received money or were otherwise compensated for their daughters’ deaths,’ suggested Montes.

  ‘Yes, but why take their dead bodies?’ asked Iriarte.

  ‘Are we one hundred per cent certain they were actually dead?’ said Zabalza. ‘At least in the case of the girl from Argi Beltz, we couldn’t find a death certificate, because of the story her parents concocted about their trip to England. We might be looking at illegal adoption, or they could have been sold … There have been similar cases involving empty tombs and stolen children.’

  ‘Yes, I had the same suspicions about my missing twin sister, but we can rule that out in cases where autopsies were performed, and I saw the Esparza girl’s body with my own eyes. But it might be helpful if you could come up with ideas about what a baby’s dead body might be used for.’

  ‘Off the top of my head, I would say for medical or forensic research purposes, but that would hardly make anyone rich. Organ trafficking, perhaps, but that would have shown up in the autopsies. And … well, this is a despicable practice, but because they aren’t scanned or searched at airports, some drug cartels use the bodies of babies whose organs have been removed to smuggle drugs.’

  ‘That might explain their wealth.’

  ‘I don’t think a cartel would pay that much. They would have received a lump sum at most, but these couples are seriously rich, and they all own what appear to be legitimate businesses.’

  Montes broke in: ‘We’re forgetting something. Besides all this newfound wealth, what astonished me in at least one of the cases was that a woman diagnosed with terminal cancer was miraculously cured. There have been other such cases, but it’s still incredible that a person who is dying one minute makes a full recovery the next. I looked into it, and she was given the all-clear years ago. I’m not saying it’s significant, but you have to admit these people have the luck of the devil.’

  Amaia sighed. ‘There is another aspect of the investigation I want to discuss with you,’ she said, shooting Iriarte a significant look. ‘We need to proceed with an open mind; we mustn’t rule out any possibility. So far, we’ve established the link between Dr Berasategui and these little girls’ parents. We know what he did to the bodies of his victims, that he instigated their murders as the tarttalo. And from the remains we found in his apartment, we know that he practised cannibalism. Bearing in mind Esparza’s erratic behaviour after his daughter’s death, and the fact that his plan to steal her body has subsequently been carried out, I believe we should consider other kinds of practices. I have a witness who can corroborate part of Elena Ochoa’s story about a sect founded here in Baztán in the seventies, at a farmhouse called Argi Beltz. A sect that practised satanic rituals, involving animal sacrifices. I also have a very reliable informant, whose name I’m not at liberty to reveal, who has confirmed that similar practices took place at another farmhouse in Lesaka, possibly led by the same man, their priest, master of ceremonies, or guru, who would have been in his mid-forties then. He moved between both groups, but lived elsewhere. My informant has also confirmed the testimony of my other witness, who claims that a little girl born at Argi Beltz died under mysterious circumstances.

  ‘You remember the case of Ainara Martínez-Bayón, whose parents maintain she died of a brain haemorrhage during a trip abroad? Deputy Inspector Etxaide was working on this when he died. He established that the girl never left Spain, which would explain why there was no record of her death, autopsy or burial in the UK. Her parents are the current owners of Argi Beltz, a wealthy couple who hosted the meetings with Berasategui, attended by Fina Hidalgo, Yolanda Berrueta’s ex-husband, Marcel Tremond, and Valentín Esparza. This can’t be a coincidence, and although they described those meetings as bereavement therapy sessions, my informant assures me that the nature of these gatherings was very different.’

  Iriarte rose from his seat.

  ‘What are you suggesting, Inspector? That these people have been practising witchcraft? We can’t base our investigation on unsubstantiated theories, unless of course you tell us who your informant is.’

  Amaia reflected for a few seconds.

  ‘All right, providing you all give me your word that this won’t go beyond these walls. He has acted in good faith because he wants this case solved, but if this became public we’d find ourselves in hot water; he’s made it quite clear that he would flatly deny it.’

  The three men nodded as one.

  ‘My informant is Father Sarasola.’

  Iriarte sat down again, clearly taken aback.

  ‘He admitted that they found a file at the clinic containing all of Dr Berasategui’s research into what Sarasola refers to as “the nuance of evil”. Alternatively, it could be described as a study of people suffering from psychological disturbances who present with behaviour of a demonic, satanic or evil nature, and are involved in various kinds of practices. Father Sarasola told me that, due to the toxic nature of these files, they were taken in a diplomatic bag to the Vatican. We have no way of getting them back. Sarasola will deny it, the Holy See will deny it, and the Government will come down on us like a ton of bricks if we kick up a fuss. He also told me that the contents of Berasategui’s files were so dark that when he heard about Deputy Inspector Etxaide’s murder he decided that we ought to know about them, in case through our investigations we have unwittingly placed ourselves in danger.’

  They all remained silent, reflecting about what they’d just heard.

  Once again, Iriarte spoke first.

  ‘I see that Dr Sarasola has this nicely tied up. All I can say is I hope you have some ideas, because personally I don’t see where this is going. We can check the alibis of Esparza’s friends and relatives to see if any of them were involved in desecrating the tomb, but right now that doesn’t seem to be leading anywhere. Berasategui and Esparza are both dead. Obtaining Judge De Gouvenain’s collaboration is out of the question, and if we fail to establish a plausible link between Berasategui, Esparza, and the other couples, Judge Markina will refuse to
authorise us to search the other babies’ tombs. So, you tell us: where do we go from here?’

  ‘You’re forgetting Fina Hidalgo. I’m convinced she’s the linchpin in all this. As her brother’s assistant and a midwife, she had privileged information about all the pregnancies in the valley. We know she attended these supposed bereavement sessions at Argi Beltz. And there’s something else we should remember; she openly admitted having helped parents to “solve the problem” of bringing sick children into the world. I think we should continue to investigate her.’

  ‘I’ll see to that,’ said Montes.

  ‘Also, I need you to trawl through all the information we have on cot deaths, not just in the valley but in the whole of Navarre. Pay special attention to girl babies born close to the River Baztán, and look into the parents’ finances before and after their deaths: if we can establish that they profited in some way, then we’ve determined a pattern. Keep questioning Esparza’s relatives and friends, and if you dig up anything suspicious, we’ll get a warrant to search their properties, although I have little hope of finding the girl’s body.’

  ‘Perhaps Sarasola could give you some clues,’ said Iriarte mockingly. ‘If he’s such an authority on this sort of practice, he’ll know where they take the bodies.’

  Iriarte had already got up to leave, but she called him back.

  ‘I’m not done yet. First, there’s something I want to say about Deputy Inspector Etxaide. During the time I worked with him, he showed unwavering loyalty and integrity. So, remember: Internal Affairs have yet to conclude their investigation; Jonan was our colleague, and we have no reason to think badly of him.’

  All three signalled their agreement and began making their way to the door.

  ‘Zabalza, wait a moment. I have a computer question for you. As you are the most knowledgeable about the subject, you’ll be my go-to person from now on.’ He nodded. ‘It’s quite simple: is it possible to programme a computer to send a message on a specific day, or at a specific time?’

  ‘Yes. That’s how spam is generated.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Okay, so, would it be possible to programme a computer to send an email if a particular situation arose?’

  ‘Could you be a bit more precise?’ he said, intrigued.

  ‘Say I wanted to send an email containing sensitive information, but for some reason I was unable to send it myself?’

  ‘You could install a kind of electronic timer, which you switch on every day, and which you activate or deactivate using a password. The day you don’t introduce the password, the message is sent automatically.’

  She was silent as she considered this.

  ‘Is that how he sent you those photos?’

  Amaia didn’t reply.

  ‘That would have been just like him. He sent you more things, didn’t he?’ Zabalza paused, staring straight at her, aware that he wouldn’t get an answer. ‘I’m not the snitch, I didn’t say a word to anyone about the search warrant, on purpose or by accident.’

  Amaia looked at him, surprised by this unsolicited declaration.

  ‘No one has accused you of being a snitch.’

  ‘But you’ve thought about it. I know we don’t exactly see eye to eye, but aside from any personal differences, I’d never betray a colleague or the force.’

  ‘You don’t have to defend yourself—’

  ‘Trust me.’

  She remembered Zabalza’s distraught figure outside the apartment. His attempt to stop her from seeing Jonan in that state, and then at the wake, his expression as he listened to Jonan’s friends, as if he’d been annihilated that day he walked into Jonan’s apartment and found his dead body.

  Just then, her mobile rang. Checking the screen, she saw that it was Dr González from Huesca. Zabalza stood up, taking his leave with a gesture, as she answered the call.

  ‘Doctor, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.’

  ‘Inspector Salazar, I’m afraid this isn’t the kind of news you are expecting. On her way home yesterday, my wife’s car was forced off the road by another vehicle.’

  ‘Oh my God, she’s not—’

  ‘No, thankfully she’s alive. Several other drivers saw what happened; they immediately called the emergency services and pulled over to give assistance. Inspector, it took them forty minutes to free her from the wreckage. She has a broken pelvis, hip, leg, nose and collarbone, and a nasty gash on her head, but she’s conscious. You know how tough she is. I didn’t call you earlier, you understand, all I could think of was her.’

  ‘Of course, please don’t apologise.’

  ‘She’s still in the ICU. They won’t let me see her, but I spoke to her just now, and she asked me to call you. She doesn’t remember much about the accident, but witnesses at the scene say they saw the other vehicle parked on the hard shoulder. Then two men scrambled up the slope, climbed in and drove off. The police have confirmed that her car was ransacked: they emptied out the contents of her bag, opened her luggage, searched under the seats, in the glove compartment, in every possible nook and cranny. When I told her this, she mentioned that you’d given her a piece of evidence for us to analyse. Yesterday, while the police were informing me about the accident, an envelope arrived, by special delivery. I was surprised that my wife had sent me a package from Pamplona. I believe this is what the men who searched the car were looking for.’

  Amaia was struggling to collect her thoughts, but all she could conjure were images of Dr Takchenko’s multiple injuries.

  ‘My wife tells me it’s a fabric sample.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, you’re in luck: other than verifying the exact composition, we wouldn’t have been able to do much with it, but I have the ideal man for the job: Andreas Santos. He’s a textile expert; I’ve known him for years, he’s the best in his field. We once dismantled a stork’s nest in Alfaro, Rioja. Among the components were vast amounts of fabric, which Santos analysed. Much to our surprise, some of them dated back to medieval times. Storks build their nests out of all kinds of material, and it seems some of them like to thieve from market stalls. Using mud and scraps of fabric, they produce solid structures that perch for centuries on top of towers. Santos has worked with various museums, and has an enormous archive of textiles and fabrics manufactured in Europe over the last thousand years. If you agree, I’d like to send him your sample.’

  ‘If you trust him, that’s good enough for me,’ she replied.

  43

  The fog that had descended from the hills invaded the streets appropriating the valley, creating the illusion that it was even earlier in the morning, that moment before dawn when, if the sun refused to break through the clouds, the day would grind to a halt. As she drove slowly through the narrow streets in the Txokoto neighbourhood on her way to join La Carretera de Francia, Amaia recognised her aunt bundled up in a thick overcoat. She was sticking close to the walls of the houses as she made her way through the old quarter down by the bridge. Drawing level with her, Amaia stopped the car and lowered the window.

  ‘Auntie, where are you off to at this time in the morning?’

  ‘Amaia, my dear!’ she exclaimed, smiling. ‘What a surprise! I thought you were in Pamplona.’

  ‘I’m on my way there now. What about you?’

  ‘I’m going to the bakery, Amaia. I’m worried about your sisters. Flora is determined to go through with this ludicrous idea of buying the business, and they’re constantly at each other’s throats. I thought I’d better go because Flora called Ros last night to tell her she was going there this morning with an auditor and an evaluator.’

  Amaia opened the passenger door.

  ‘Jump in, Auntie, I’ll go with you.’

  Besides Flora’s Mercedes, several unfamiliar cars were parked outside. The head baker greeted them with a solemn expression, mirrored on the faces of the other employees, at work behind the stainless steel counters. Ros, calm and dignified at her desk in the office, seemed determined
not to abandon her post, as if it were a fortress or watchtower, or perhaps just the heart of power in that business, from which she observed the comings and goings of the two besuited men. One was busy measuring the floor space and taking photographs of the equipment and ovens, while the other sat perched beside one of the counters on an uncomfortably high stool together with Flora and the agent, who had managed the accounts for Mantecadas Salazar for years. Flora smiled when she saw them. Amaia could tell instantly that her sister was nervous, despite her attempts to dissimulate behind her habitual veneer of despotic pride. As if she were the owner, the Red Queen, who, with her confident manner, and strident voice, would show everyone who was in charge. But Amaia knew her sister, she knew this was a façade she presented to the public, belied by the furtive glances she kept giving Rosaura, who, impassive, watched her sister’s posturing like a long-suffering spectator trying to decide whether or not to applaud at the end of a performance. And that flustered her big sister. Flora was used to her actions producing the desired effect, making people bend to her will, and she found Ros’s response, or rather her lack of any response, exasperating. Amaia could tell from the way Flora took a deep breath every time she looked at Ros. But Flora wasn’t the only one bothered by Ros’s passivity. Amaia and her aunt had discussed it, and they agreed that while for Flora this was merely a battle of wills, yet another opportunity for her to flex her muscles, it could finish Ros. In the past year, she had made the bakery the centre of her world, she had big plans for the place, and it was undoubtedly her first major achievement in life.

  ‘I offered to help her financially,’ her aunt had admitted. ‘I realise that in all fairness I probably shouldn’t have, but I think the bakery means a lot more to Ros than it does to Flora.’

  ‘James offered too, but Ros refused; she insisted she had to do this on her own.’

  ‘She said the same to me,’ her aunt replied sadly. ‘Sometimes I wonder if it’s a good thing that you girls are so independent; I don’t know where you got the idea that you can’t accept help from others.’