Reassured by the apparent calm, Amaia left her aunt at the bakery. A few minutes later she was on her way back to Pamplona.
The fog accompanied her all the way to the tunnel at Almandoz, forcing her to slow down. Each year that stretch of road took its toll of lives among the lorry drivers on their way to Pamplona and Irun, and the locals from the valley, who accepted the cruel tithe much as they resigned themselves to the rain, the fog and the periods when the tunnel was closed, forcing them to take the even more perilous old road.
She couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened to Dr Takchenko, and what instinct had made her send the piece of fabric by courier. Her husband was right, she was tough, but she was also smart. On more than one occasion during their acquaintance, she had shown Amaia that she possessed not just a brilliant mind but an instinct for survival, which had kept her alive in her own country, where for reasons she had never explained, she had developed an aversion to police stations. In this instance, it was Takchenko not Amaia who had understood both the significance and the threat attached to the piece of evidence, given to her, which had put her life in danger. But if that piece of fabric was evidence that hadn’t been processed, and no one had seen her pick it up, then only the killer could know that it was still there, and that it was important enough to prove guilt, or at least to cast suspicion. Sarasola’s words rang in her head: ‘You may have stumbled upon something extremely dangerous.’
Amaia had called Sarasola earlier, having decided that perhaps Iriarte’s idea about asking him wasn’t so preposterous. But there was one other thing she needed to do. She stopped off at a computer store on the outskirts of Pamplona and bought a couple of memory sticks; then she went to the house on Calle Mercaderes, where she looked again at Jonan’s files on Fina Hidalgo. Besides the search warrant, and a document listing her details, there was a list of places where she had worked. She wondered why Etxaide would have been interested in that. Hidalgo herself had told them that after her brother died she had been employed by various hospitals. She went over the list again. Her last job before retiring had been at the Hospital Comarcal de Irún; prior to that, she’d worked as a midwife at two private clinics: Virgen de la Manzana in Hondarribia, and Clínica Río Bidasoa, also in Irún. Rereading the names of the hospitals, she understood what had caught Jonan’s attention: Río Bidasoa. The River Baztán changed its name after Oronoz-Mugaire; in Doneztebe it was called River Bidasoa – the same river with a different name in a different province. Excited and encouraged by her discovery, she picked up her phone and called Montes.
‘Inspector?’
‘I think we’re mistaken in limiting the search to the River Baztán. On its way to the Bay of Biscay, the river passes through Navarre and Guipúzcoa, where it’s called the Bidasoa; if Fina Hidalgo acted as a recruit for the parents of these girls, it’s likely that her endeavours extended to the other areas where she worked. Tell Zabalza to widen his search to include cot deaths among baby girls in Guipúzcoa, above all focusing on locations close to the River Bidasoa.’
She hung up, and inserted the memory stick into her computer. After downloading the contents of Jonan’s file, she paused to reread the automatic message, which was effectively her friend’s dying bequest to her. As she deleted it, she had the feeling severing something akin to a spiritual link, something that constituted a threat so great, so dangerous and imminent to someone that because of it Jonan had died, and Dr Takchenko had narrowly avoided losing her life. Before leaving the house, she put the memory stick in her bag, grabbing Dupree’s book at the last moment. She drove to the car park at a shopping centre, got out of her car, greeting Sarasola’s chauffeur as she climbed into the vehicle, where the priest was waiting for her.
She got straight to the point.
‘You told me a witness had come forward.’
‘Yes, a penitent member of the sect.’
‘I need to speak to him.’
‘That’s impossible,’ he protested.
‘For me, perhaps, but not for you,’ she retorted.
‘He’s a protected witness.’
‘Yes, you told me he was protected by the police, and the Church,’ she said.
Father Sarasola remained silent. After a few seconds, he leaned forward to give the chauffeur an address, at which the car engine started.
‘Now?’
‘What’s wrong? Is this not a good time for you?’
She said nothing until the car came to a halt on the corner of a street in the old part of town.
‘But, he’s here, in Pamplona?’
‘Can you think of a better place? Get out of the car, amuse yourself for a quarter of an hour, then go to number 27 in the street parallel to this one, and ring the bell to flat one.’
‘Is it safe?’
‘Opus Dei owns the whole block, and believe me, it would be easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for an outsider to enter that building.’
She was shown to a magnificent apartment with high, coffered ceilings and tall windows like vast embrasures, letting in the meagre light of the Pamplona winter, which with the addition of thin white curtains gave the room a gloomy feel. Despite the central heating, or the dim yellow light bulb buried in the mouldings ten feet above their heads, together with scant, austere furnishings, created an unwelcoming atmosphere. The man wore a loose-fitting grey suit and a clean white shirt; Amaia noticed that, rather incongruously, he was wearing slippers. His cropped hair and patchy grey stubble made him look older than his age, which according to Sarasola was fifty-five.
He eyed her suspiciously, but listened attentively to the priest’s words, humbly agreeing to his request.
The man, who was extremely thin, kept toying nervously with a wedding band that was loose on his finger.
‘Tell me about your time in Lesaka.’
‘I was twenty-five and had just left university. That summer I came to Pamplona with some friends for the San Fermín festival. I met a girl. She invited us back to the house she shared. To begin with, it was fun. Like a sort of commune, exploring the old traditions, questioning what it means to be human, and understanding the forces of nature. They grew marijuana, and we used to get high, listen to the wind, get close to Mother Earth, dance around the fire. Occasionally, the group would organise get togethers designed to encourage new members to join, people from the valley, or outsiders like me who were interested in spiritualism, magic, the tradition of witchcraft in Baztán. There was much mention of a man called Tabese, the things he said, how knowledgeable he was, but during those early days I never met him. At the end of the summer, the majority of people drifted away, but they invited me to stay on. And that’s when they began to reveal to me the true nature of the group.
‘I first met Tabese in September of that year. He fascinated me from the start. He drove an expensive car, he dressed well, without being ostentatious, he had the ease of a person who has always had money, you know? He was extremely attractive, his skin, his hair, his manner; he was unique. I think we were all in love with him,’ he said, and Amaia noticed his smile as he spoke, entranced once more merely recollecting this man. ‘We adored him. We would have done anything he asked. And we did. He was charismatic, sensual, irresistible; never before or since have I felt that way about any man, or woman,’ he whispered mournfully.
‘Where did he live?’
‘I don’t know, we never knew when he was going to come; he’d suddenly appear and we’d all rejoice. Then, when he left, we’d live for his next visit.’
‘Do you remember his full name?’
‘I’ll never forget it: Xavier Tabese. He must have been about forty-five. That’s all I know. We didn’t need to know any more, then, only that we worshipped him and he gave us this power. Tabese told us exactly what to do, and how. He taught us about witchcraft, he espoused a return to the traditional ways, a respect for our roots, for primeval forces, and explained that the only way to relate to them was through the offering. He revea
led to us the forgotten religion, the presence of wondrous, magical creatures that have existed in Baztán since ancient times. He told us how the first settlers erected markers in the form of megaliths and ley lines that criss-crossed the entire territory, according to Watkins’s alignments dating back to Neolithic times, suggesting the presence of those spirits then; all we needed to do was rouse them by making offerings and we’d obtain everything we desired.
‘He explained how for thousands of years man had enjoyed a mutually beneficial and satisfying relationship with these forces, and all we had to give in exchange were lives, small sacrifices of animals that had to be offered up in a particular way.’ The man rubbed his hands vigorously over his face, as though attempting to erase his features. ‘We soon received the first favours, the first proof of this power, and we felt euphoric and invincible, like sorcerers of old. You can’t imagine what it feels like to know that you’ve brought about a change, of whatever type; it makes you feel like a god. But the more blessings we obtained from them, the more they demanded in return. I lived with the group for about a year, during which time I had access to extraordinary knowledge, powers and experiences …’
Here the man broke off, staring at the floor for so long Amaia began to despair. Then he raised his head again, and resumed. ‘I won’t talk about the sacrifice, I can’t. The fact is we did it, we all took part, the parents themselves gave her up, took her life, according to the rules. When it was all over, they took her body away, and a few days later, people started to leave the group, and within a month everyone had gone. Tabese never came back. I was one of the last to leave. By then only the couple who had made the offering remained.
‘I didn’t see any of the other members for years, although I’m aware that things went well for them, at least as well as they did for me. I found a job, I started a business, and within a few years I was a wealthy man. I got married,’ he said, fingering his ring. ‘I had a son. When he was eight years old, he became ill with cancer. During a visit to the hospital I recognised a member of the group among the medical staff. He approached me, and when I told him about my son’s fate, he said I had the power to cure him, all I had to do was offer up a sacrifice. The pain and despair of seeing my son suffer made me consider it. For better or worse, you ask yourself a lot of questions when you watch your child die. First and foremost: Why is this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this? And in my case the answer was as clear as the voice of God echoing in my head. My son passed away a few months later, and the following week I went to the police, and here I am. We did the deed, and we reaped the benefits; it’s as real as me sitting here. The instant I confessed and reported the crime, everything collapsed about me. I lost my job, my money, my wife, my house, and my friends. I have nowhere to go, no one to turn to.’
‘I understand that there were other groups in the area.’
The man nodded.
‘Do you know of anyone else who carried out one of these sacrifices?’
‘I know there was talk about one taking place immediately in Baztán. I remember once visiting the house there, one of the couples had a little girl. And that she had the chosen look.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’d already seen it in our group; the parents half-starved their daughter, and the others in the group avoided contact with her. She had been singled out for sacrifice, and any normal relationship would have complicated things. She was treated like all the other creatures chosen for sacrifice, she was nameless, without identity, ignored.’
Amaia searched on her mobile for a photograph of her mother when she was young, and showed it to the man.
‘Yes,’ he said gloomily. ‘She belonged to the Baztán group. I don’t know whether she went through with it, but she was pregnant when I met her.’
‘How did they do it? What was the procedure to obtain the desired result?’
The man covered his face with his hands, speaking through spread fingers. ‘Please, no, please,’ he implored.
‘Brother,’ said Sarasola reprovingly.
The man removed his hands from his face and looked at him, transfixed by the priest’s voice.
‘They had to be sacrificed to an evil spirit, to Inguma, in the manner of Inguma, robbing them of air, and then as part of the offering, their dead body had to be given up.’
‘Un demon sur vous,’ thought Amaia.
‘For what purpose?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is that what happened to the body of the girl in Lesaka?’
‘I don’t know. That was also something the parents had to do, part of the ritual, a condition that had to be fulfilled. The child had to be female, no older than two, and unbaptised.’
‘Unbaptised,’ Amaia repeated, writing down the information. ‘Why?’
‘Because baptism is also a form of offering, a promise to a different god. They had to be unbaptised.’
Amaia couldn’t help remembering her own son, stretched out on the floor of that cave, and marvelling at how the planets had aligned to keep him from dying before he was even born.
‘And the age group?’
‘Up to the age of two, the soul is still in transition: this makes them ripe for offering. They can be offered throughout childhood and adolescence, when another change takes place which also makes them more desirable as offerings. However, it’s easier to conceal the death of a baby than that of an adolescent.’
‘Why girls and not boys?’
‘The offerings must belong to the same sex. I don’t know why, but Tabese told us this was how it had always been. Inguma awakens and takes a number of victims belonging to the same sex, the same age group, in identical circumstances, until the cycle is completed. He explained to us the importance of doing it in the right way, and the benefits we would reap. In general, the men were keener. Parents were urged to have more children, immediately, but some of the women, even those who were committed, suffered depression afterwards, and found that extremely difficult. Others had no idea what their husbands were planning. I heard that in some cases couples split up. I didn’t see what all the fuss was about back then, but having lost my son, I know I couldn’t love a substitute child, and if I were forced to have one, I might end up hating it.’
‘What did members receive in exchange for these offerings?’
‘Whatever they wanted, although that depended on the nature of the offering: good health, riches, the removal of a competitor, revenge; in exchange for the sacrifice, there were no limits to what you could obtain.’
‘Why was it necessary to take away the bodies after death?’
‘Because that’s what you do with offerings, you surrender them, you give them up, you take them to the place where they can fulfil their purpose.’
‘And where is that place?’
‘I already told you, I don’t know,’ the man replied wearily.
‘Try to think, make an effort, what places did Tabese talk to you about?’
‘Magical places, places that possessed powers older than Christendom, places where in bygone days women and men would leave offerings in exchange for anything from a good harvest to a devastating storm. Such powers can be used for good as well as evil. He said they were like giant magnifying glasses where the energies and forces of the universe, which modern man has forgotten, converge.’
Amaia thought about the offerings she had left on the table rock at Mari’s cave, the presence she had felt the last time she was there.
‘What about the forest?’
The man looked at her, startled.
‘You’re referring to the keeper of harmony. Not all forces possess the same nature, and that one, in particular, is benign. You must understand that this works like string theory, governing all the worlds that exist within this world; when you trigger an event that wasn’t meant to happen, you must give something in return, an offering, a sacrifice. To think that an action can exist without consequence is absurd. The universe must redress the balance, an
d the ripple effect of what you do can remain long afterwards. We awakened Inguma, through our actions, but we also awakened other forces antagonistic to Inguma.’ He paused, a twisted smile on his face. ‘Do you believe my son died by chance? Or that the situation I find myself in isn’t a direct consequence of events in that house over thirty years ago? I believe it is. I know it is.’
‘What about the members who decided to leave the group?’
‘You don’t understand,’ he replied, with the same twisted smile. ‘No one leaves the group and no one is exempt from making an offering; sooner or later, Inguma will make you pay. The group disbanded because that was part of the agreement, but we’ve never stopped being members.’
‘I know someone who left,’ she said, thinking of Elena Ochoa. ‘And you seem to have succeeded.’
‘I haven’t finished paying the consequences. I’ve done what I had to do, but they’ll get me in the end.’
‘You seem well protected,’ she said, glancing at Sarasola.
‘You don’t understand, this is just for now. Do you think I can stay here forever? They’re biding their time, but they will come for me, and when they do, no one will be able to protect me.’
Amaia thought bleakly of Elena kneeling amid a pool of blood and walnut shavings.
‘I met someone who said the same thing.’
As she extended her hand, the man looked at her suspiciously, folding his arms.
‘Thank you for your help,’ she said. He bowed his head wearily by way of reply. ‘One final question: what do walnuts signify to you?’
The man’s expression froze, and he shivered, his face screwing up as he started to weep.
‘They left some outside my front door – I found them in my car, in my sports bag, in my mailbox.’
‘But what do they signify?’
‘They symbolise power. Within the tiny folds of the walnut’s brain resides the witch’s curse; it means you have been singled out, that they are coming for you.’
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