Offering to the Storm

by Dolores Redondo

  Another thunderclap crashed above their heads, momentarily diverting their attention to the spectacular storm brewing outside.

  ‘By suffocating them,’ said Zabalza.

  ‘That’s right, by robbing them of their breath – which is what the witness claims happened during the sacrifice. To complete the ritual, the body was then taken to a specific place, the location of which he claims not to know. Wealth seems to be the main thing the participants received in return, with the parents of the sacrificed baby being granted unlimited wishes.

  ‘He told me a few other interesting things,’ Amaia went on. ‘Some of which I passed on to you yesterday: the cult leader’s name, Xavier Tabese, and his age – about seventy-five, assuming he’s still alive. He also said that there were occasions when only one of the parents of the sacrificial victim belonged to the sect, as seems to have been the case with Yolanda Berrueta and Sonia Esparza. There were also occasions when both parents initially consented to the sacrifice, but the mother subsequently fell prey to depression. That made me wonder: what if those couples ended up separating? If we could find mothers who separated from their husbands and whose babies are buried in their family tombs, we might be able to persuade them to consent to our opening the coffins. We wouldn’t need a court order if the families themselves made the request. And to be on the safe side, they could give a pretext like wanting to check for flood damage. So I want you to check whether any of the parents of our possible victims are divorced.’

  A fresh lightning bolt lit up the sky, interrupting the power supply and plunging them into darkness for a few seconds until the lights flashed back on.

  She didn’t mind walking in the rain, but the deafening sound of water falling on to the canopy of her umbrella made her nervous. As she came to a halt outside Señor Yáñez’s house, she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. The display showed two missed calls: one from James, the other from Markina. She deleted them both, thrust the phone deep into her pocket, and rang the bell once, imagining the old man muttering to himself as rose from his makeshift bed in front of the television. Soon afterwards, she heard a bolt being drawn back, and Yáñez’s wrinkled face appeared.

  ‘Ah, it’s you,’ he said.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  He gave no reply, but left the door wide open as he walked back down the corridor towards the sitting room. He was wearing the same pair of corduroys, but had swapped his thick sweater and warm dressing gown for a checked shirt. The house felt warm. She followed Yáñez, who sat down on the sofa, motioning for her to do the same.

  ‘Thanks for calling.’

  She looked at him, puzzled.

  ‘About the boiler, thanks for calling the repair man.’

  ‘No problem,’ she replied.

  The old man focused his attention on the television screen.

  ‘Señor Yáñez, there’s something I want to ask you about.’

  He stared at her.

  ‘Last time I was here, you told me that another police officer had been to see you recently. You said he’d made you a cup of coffee …’

  Yáñez nodded.

  ‘I’d like you to look at this photograph and tell me if this is him.’ She showed him a picture of Jonan Etxaide on her mobile.

  ‘Yes, that’s him. Nice lad.’

  Amaia switched off the display and put her phone away.

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Phfft,’ replied Yáñez, with a vague wave of his hand.

  Amaia rose, picking up from a side table the photograph Yáñez had shown her during her last visit.

  ‘Your wife didn’t become depressed when your son was born, did she? I think she started to feel bad long before that. Instead of making her happy, his birth was devastating for her. She couldn’t love him; she rejected him because he was a substitute for the baby girl she had already lost.’

  Yáñez opened his mouth but said nothing. He reached for the remote that was lying next to him and switched off the television.

  ‘I never had a daughter.’

  ‘Yes, you did. That other police officer suspected as much, and that’s why he came to talk to you.’

  Yáñez remained silent for a few seconds, before confessing: ‘Having another child was supposed to make Margarita forget, but instead she became even more obsessed with what had happened.’

  ‘What was the girl’s name?’

  Again, he took his time answering.

  ‘She had no name, she wasn’t baptised. She died of cot death a few hours after she was born.’

  ‘Fuck! You killed your own daughter!’ Amaia said in disgust.

  Yáñez looked at her, a smile spreading over his face, then erupting into laughter. He cackled like a madman for a while, then fell silent.

  ‘And what are you going to do, report me?’ he hissed. ‘My son is dead, my wife is dead, and I’m doomed to spend the rest of my days rotting alive inside this house. How many more winters do you think I’ll survive? I have nothing to live for. Someone told me once that gifts from the devil turn to shit – and they were right: my life has turned into one big stinking pile of shit. I don’t care if they come for me. Let them send the walnuts, I’ll gladly swallow them and let the evil rip my insides apart. I gave it all up long ago. When my wife died, everything I thought was important – the money, the house, the business – lost all meaning. I gave it all up.’

  Amaia thought about the words of the witness holed up in the house belonging to Opus Dei: ‘No one leaves the sect.’

  ‘Perhaps you did, but your son took your place, didn’t he? A sacrifice like that couldn’t be allowed to go to waste.’

  Yáñez grabbed the remote and switched the television back on.

  Amaia started towards the door. When she was halfway down the corridor she heard him call out.

  ‘Inspector, the power went off this afternoon; I think the boiler is on the blink again.’

  She opened the front door.

  ‘Fuck you!’ she yelled, slamming the door behind her. She headed back towards the station, went upstairs to the meeting room, and placed a fresh red dot on the map.

  48

  Ros Salazar stayed on at work later than usual. Sitting at her desk, she took the opportunity to reply to some correspondence while she waited.

  The bakery door was open, and from her position, she could see Flora enter, although she pretended not to have noticed her until she placed some folders on the desk.

  ‘Well, little sister, these are the reports and the valuation. I’ll leave them here for you to study at your leisure, but I can tell you now that the business alone is worth more than the value of all your assets put together – assuming they aren’t already mortgaged to the hilt. Not to mention the building and the machinery. My offer is on the last page … Don’t be a fool, Ros; take the money and give me back my bakery.’

  They were interrupted by Ernesto, the manager, who was holding up a plastic bag from the hardware store.

  ‘Forgive me for butting in. Rosaura, I’ve had the copies of the keys made as you asked. Where do you want me to put them?’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’re finished talking. Keep one for yourself, and put the others in the key cupboard,’ said Ros. ‘Thank you, Flora, you’ll have my reply soon,’ she said brusquely.

  ‘Think hard, little sister,’ Flora retorted, closing the door behind her as she left. Ros opened the desk drawer and placed the folders inside without even glancing at them. Then she sat staring at the cursor on the computer screen, counting the blinks: one, two, three, four, up to sixty, and then from one to sixty again.

  She rose and went into the bakery. Opening the cupboard where the keys were kept, she counted the copies. There were two missing: Ernesto’s and the one Flora had taken. She smiled to herself, returned to her office, switched off the computer and left, closing the door behind her.

  Amaia looked at her watch, calculating what time it was in the States, then she called James. Engrasi’s question had been hamme
ring away in her head all afternoon.

  ‘We miss you,’ was the reply from across the ocean. ‘When are you coming over?’

  She explained to him about the investigation into Jonan’s death not going in the right direction. About her friend Dr Takchenko’s terrible car accident … Perhaps in a few days. She listened to Ibai’s burbling as he played with the phone, and she felt unbearably sad, unbearably guilty.

  Afterwards, she called Markina.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all afternoon. What do you want for dinner?’

  ‘I’ve been busy. You’ll be pleased to know that Yolanda Berrueta is doing well. I went to see her this morning at the hospital.’ She paused, waiting for his reply.

  ‘That is good news.’

  ‘She told me about your meeting …’

  Another pause, no reply this time.

  ‘… The one where you advised her to get in touch with me discreetly because I was the right person to help her.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Amaia, she was so wretched, I felt sorry for her. She reminded me of my own mother, obsessed with her dead babies, but my hands were tied. All I said was that if she could get you genuinely interested in the case you might be able to help her. And I wasn’t mistaken: you did.’

  ‘You manipulated me.’

  ‘That’s precisely what I didn’t do, Amaia. I didn’t want her to go to you saying I had sent her; that would have been manipulative, as well as completely out of order. Okay, she went to you on my recommendation, but it was simply a piece of advice given to a desperate woman who was in a great deal of pain. You showed interest, you made the decision to help her. You can’t blame me for believing in you.’

  ‘That didn’t stop you from hindering me.’

  ‘You didn’t go through the proper channels, you know that.’

  ‘I’m referring to our conversation last night. You have a horror of exhumations, yet you sent this grieving mother to me; and then you reproached me for being obsessed with a case which you were pushing me into while at the same time not supporting me.’

  ‘You’re right, I behaved like an idiot yesterday, but you can’t say that I don’t protect you, that I don’t defend your interests. I did when Judge De Gouvenain wanted to file a complaint, and again when the Tremond family came to my office threatening to sue you for damages. I protect you, Amaia, from everyone and everything. But in my capacity as a magistrate, my powers are limited in the same way yours are as head of Homicide. The difference is that I follow the rules, Amaia – or are you saying you didn’t deviate from procedure at least once in the course of your investigation? I’m familiar with your methods, and I think you’re brilliant, I’m crazy about you, but you can’t expect me to behave like you. First and foremost, I have a duty to protect you from yourself, from your fears … No one knows better than I, what a burden it is to have a terrible family.’

  She remained silent. No, she couldn’t say she hadn’t broken the rules. And at that very moment she was withholding information from Markina, Clemos, Iriarte, and even Montes. There wasn’t a single person to whom she had revealed everything; she’d requested parallel tests to be run on that strand of fabric, and for the moment she planned to keep quiet about Yáñez’s daughter – although, as the old man said, she couldn’t prove anything. And it would stay that way until she discovered why the deputy governor had lied about Markina visiting the prison when Berasategui was moved; she didn’t want to risk confronting Markina directly. But she had no choice.

  ‘Did you go to the prison the day Berasategui died?’

  ‘Of course, you saw me there,’ he replied at once. This was a good sign.

  ‘I know, I’m asking whether you went there after we spoke on the phone, before Berasategui was found dead.’

  This time he paused for several …

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  This was a bad sign; someone who has nothing to hide replies immediately. As for answering a question with another question, that could only mean one of two things: either he was giving himself time to think up a reply, or he was avoiding the question. So either he was lying or he had something to hide.

  ‘Did you go there or not?’

  ‘Yes. When I learned that the governor was away, I was concerned. I’ve never met his deputy, and I wasn’t sure he realised how serious this was, so I decided to go there and see for myself.’

  ‘That all seems perfectly reasonable, except that when I asked him whether you’d been there, he denied it.’

  ‘The man’s a fool.’

  Yes, she’d had that impression too. She breathed more easily.

  ‘Did you speak to Berasategui?’

  ‘No. I didn’t go anywhere near his cell.’

  ‘But you spoke to the guard …’

  ‘Yes, I told him to watch Berasategui closely. Now, why don’t you come over to my place, and we’ll continue this conversation naked over a bottle of wine. That is if you want to.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she sighed. ‘I’m at my aunt’s house and I promised I’d have supper with her.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she agreed, and hung up.

  49

  Flora considered two in the morning a prudent hour; encountering someone on the street in Elizondo at that time would be nothing short of a miracle. Besides, she had to do this that night so she could return the key before Ros noticed it was missing. Fortunately for her, the entrance to the bakery was still unlit; for years they had been asking the town council to install a street lamp, but the adjoining land was private, and the owners opposed it. She entered the bakery, only switching on the lights when she reached the office, where they could only be seen from outside by someone looking up at the eaves and who would do that. She hurriedly slipped off her shoes, climbed up on to the sofa, took down the painting by Ciga, and turned the combination lock. The door sprang open. The safe was empty. Gazing in disbelief, she thrust her hand inside feeling the back of the metal box. Her heart missed a beat when a voice rang out behind her.

  ‘Good evening, Sister.’ Flora swung round, startled, tottering slightly. ‘If you’re looking for the contents of the safe, I have them. The fact is, I’d forgotten it even existed until that time you came to the office when I wasn’t here, and put back the painting crooked. It took me days to figure out what could be so important as to make you sneak in here like a thief in the night.’

  ‘But you—’

  ‘No, I didn’t have the combination, but that’s not a problem. When you’re the owner; you call a locksmith, tell them you’ve forgotten the combination, and they open it for you.’

  ‘You have no right! The contents of that safe are private.’

  ‘I disagree: I have every right, because this is my bakery. As for the contents being private: I understand perfectly why you wouldn’t want anyone to see them. They put you in a very awkward situation.’ Flora was still standing on the sofa, holding on to the door of the safe to steady herself. ‘If you get down from there, I’ll explain what’s going to happen now,’ said Ros, amused. ‘I’ve been through the contents at least a dozen times, so I practically know them off by heart.’

  Flora had turned pale and was clutching her stomach with both hands, as though about to throw up; even so, she managed to collect herself enough to threaten Ros.

  ‘You’re going give it back to me right now!’

  ‘No, Flora, I’m not giving anything back to you. But don’t worry, you have nothing to fear – provided you behave. I have no desire to make things difficult for you; besides, I wouldn’t want to have to visit you in prison, although I might be obliged to in order to spare Engrasi the ordeal. As I said, I’ve read everything, Flora. I’ve read and understood. I don’t judge you. Unlike you, I’ve never set myself up as being morally superior. Much as I think you deserve to be taught a lesson, I understand why you did it. I spent years making excuses for my stupid, idle husband … Of course, he was no murderer; if he had been, then making excuses
and covering up for him would have made me his accomplice, wouldn’t it?’

  Flora didn’t reply.

  ‘I understand you perfectly, Flora. You did what you had to do, and I don’t judge you for that. Dying in that farmhouse was probably the best thing that could have happened to poor Victor. However, even though I sympathise, I’m not going to let you ruin my life. I shan’t report you, Flora, unless you leave me no other choice. I thought long and hard about this discovery and what to do about it, and in the end I saw the light. I think our family has suffered enough, so I put your diary and your pretty red shoes in a box and I took them to a solicitor. It has never occurred to me to make a will – I’m young and healthy, and don’t intend to die any time soon – but we have to be prepared for any eventuality. So, if anything happens to me, if for some reason I drop dead, the box will be delivered to our sister Amaia. Because, Flora, whilst our morals may leave a lot to be desired, I know for sure that if Amaia found out what was in your diary, she wouldn’t hesitate to turn you in. Maybe it’s because of her tough childhood, all the shit she had to endure while we stood by, but she’s not like us; Amaia would no more approve of what I’m doing now than she would take pity on you. So, I suggest we find another lawyer, Sister,’ she said with a grin, ‘to handle the gift you’re going to make to me of your share of the bakery. That’s all I want. You can keep your money and go on living your own life. I shan’t bother you again, and we’ll never mention this conversation – but if you try to mess with me, I’ll finish you.’

  Flora was listening intently, arms folded, a sober expression on her face.

  ‘You seem very sure that this will work.’

  ‘I am. In this family, we are experts at keeping terrible secrets, behaving as if everything were fine.’

  Flora’s face softened, and she smiled.

  ‘Well, it seems our little Rosario has a brain after all,’ she said, looking at her approvingly. ‘I’ll find another lawyer tomorrow – just make sure you don’t let some other little shit take control of your life.’