She picked up her bag, and brushed past Ros as she headed for the door.
‘Flora, wait.’
‘Yes?’
‘Before you go, could you please put everything back the way it was?’
Flora went back to close the safe, hang the painting on the wall and tidy the cushions on the sofa. Then she turned on her heel and left.
50
The small gestures, the details, all the minutiae that made up her world and that had become indispensable were highlighted by James’s absence. She had been awake for a good quarter of an hour stroking his pillow with the back of her hand. The way he woke her up with a series of tiny kisses on the top of her head; the milky coffee in a glass he placed on her bedside table every morning; his big, rough sculptor’s hands; the scent of his skin through his jumper; the space between his arms that was her refuge …
She got out of bed and padded barefoot to the kitchen to make herself some coffee, carried it upstairs and climbed back under the covers. She looked with annoyance at her phone, which started to ring just at that moment, but her irritation gave way to curiosity when she recognised Father Sarasola’s number.
‘Inspector … I’m not quite sure how to tell you this.’ She was surprised: if there was one man in the world who had no difficulty articulating it was Sarasola; she couldn’t imagine anything leaving him speechless. ‘Rosario came back.’
‘What? Did you say—’
‘Less than fifteen minutes ago, your mother walked into the clinic, stood in front of the CCTV cameras in reception, pulled out a knife and cut her own throat.’
Amaia started shaking from head to toe.
‘The receptionists and the two security guards on the door immediately called for help, and our doctors did everything they could to save her, but … I’m sorry, Amaia: your mother died on the way to the operating theatre. There was nothing they could do, she bled to death.’
Dr Sarasola’s office seemed as cold and impersonal as it had the first time she visited. He looked out of place in there; she imagined him more at home in an office like the one Dr San Martín occupied at the Institute of Forensic Medicine. Instead, the room was decorated with monastic austerity, a simple crucifix the only adornment on the vast white walls. The furniture, though of excellent quality, was as impersonal as any you might find in a bank or other institution; the cherrywood desk alone stood out, adding both personality and good taste. And yet that very starkness was conducive to thought: the absence of objects that might draw the eye encouraged introspection, meditation and enquiry. Which was what Amaia had been engaging in for the past hour. She had pulled on her clothes and driven to the clinic on autopilot as a thousand and one childhood memories flashed through her mind. Though most were painful she was nevertheless conscious of a strange melancholy – a yearning for something she’d never had.
Although she’d tried not to let her thoughts dwell on the fear she carried around with her, she must have wished a million times over that she could be rid of that burden, be rid of Rosario. She had spent the last month defending her conviction that her mother was still alive, hiding out somewhere, biding her time, waiting to strike. She had felt it in her bones, the way a sheep feels the wolf’s presence; with that same animal fear and anguish driving her on, she had opposed those who insisted the river had taken Rosario. Now, sitting in Sarasola’s office, her initial shock had given way to a feeling of disappointment and disillusion which she couldn’t explain.
Sarasola had accompanied her down a long corridor, recounting the details of Rosario’s return, then ushered her into the control room. She remembered the night her mother had escaped from the clinic when she’d come to this same room to watch the CCTV footage.
‘I know that you’re a homicide detective, but despite your destructive relationship with Rosario, she was your mother. I should warn you that these images are shocking and you might find them disturbing to watch. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, but I need to see this with my own eyes.’
‘Very well.’ He signalled to the head of security to replay the footage. A widescreen view of the reception area and entrance filled the monitor, from cameras located above the lift doors. There was a lot of coming and going: outpatients, medical personnel and other staff members starting or finishing their shifts. She saw Rosario enter, one hand hidden beneath her coat, the other clutching her waist. Moving slowly – not with difficulty, but like someone terribly weary, or downcast – she walked directly to the centre of the foyer, glancing up to make sure she was in full view of the camera. She was weeping, a look of sorrow on her tearstained face. She reached among her clothes, pulled out a long-bladed knife, and placed it to her throat. Amaia recognised the cruel grimace on her mother’s lips as she slid the knife from left to right, slitting her own throat with one swift movement. She closed her eyes, swaying on her feet for a few seconds, then she fell to the floor. Alarms went off, people started running, nurses and medics gathered around Rosario, blocking the camera’s view. The head of security switched off the screen. Amaia turned to Sarasola.
‘Could you please inform my sisters?’
‘Of course. Don’t worry, I’ll see to it.’
She hadn’t wanted to speak to anyone, not her family, not San Martín, not Markina, not even the commissioner, who had called twenty minutes ago. Sarasola had taken her to his office, and she’d heard him go into what seemed like a perfect routine, putting callers off, asking them to respect her grief. But in truth she felt no grief; there was no sense of pain, no peace, no relief, not even the kind of gratification experienced by someone who sees their enemy destroyed. She had no sense of reprieve or satisfaction, and only after she had thought long and hard did she realise why: it didn’t feel right, she didn’t believe it, it made no sense, it wasn’t logical, it confounded her expectations. This wasn’t how the wolf was conquered. To destroy the wolf’s power, you had to track it down, ensnare it, confront it. Wolves didn’t commit suicide, they didn’t dash themselves against the rocks; the wolf only ceased to be a wolf when it was killed. Amaia was haunted by the images of Rosario’s despondent figure, her mournful expression, tears of despair streaming down her cheeks, the grimace on her lips as she prepared to carry out her mission. She had seen the same thing when that other wolf, Berasategui, had committed suicide, shedding tears of self-pity for the terrible loss of his own life. He had wept so much his pillow was sodden. At that instant, after watching her death, Amaia was more convinced than ever that neither Berasategui nor her mother had taken their own lives voluntarily.
A familiar sensation of revulsion overwhelmed her; the feeling she had when confronted with a lie, with the awful impression of being caught in a web of lies.
She left Sarasola’s office without saying goodbye, and went straight back to the station at Elizondo.
She ran up to the second floor, searching all the offices for her colleagues. She found Zabalza sitting at his computer.
‘Where are Iriarte and Montes?’
‘They’ve gone to Igantzi, to interview a woman who filed for divorce three weeks after losing her baby girl to cot death. Then, they’re seeing another woman in Hondarribia. Boss … I heard about your mother—’
‘Don’t say a word,’ she interrupted, turning and heading for her office. She plugged the memory stick containing Jonan’s files into her computer, and opened all the documents. She realised for the first time what she was seeing: a web of lies, make-believe and deception.
The tomb in Ainhoa from which two babies had supposedly been taken. A lie. The same tomb where a little girl’s remains should have been, another lie. The meeting between Yolanda Berrueta and Inma Herranz, still more lies. Fina Hidalgo’s employment history concealed a lie, as did Berasategui’s relationship with the sect at Argi Beltz. The images of Judge Markina at the prison the day Berasategui died, another lie. Jonan’s file was a collection of fabrications, masquerading as something else for her benefit. She opened the file containing photograp
hs of her and Markina outside the Baluarte Congress Centre that night, wondering what they meant, what secret they might hide. She closed the file and opened another, containing the address of a nursing home in Madrid where a woman called Sara had been admitted. She wondered what the lie was behind that name.
Her phone leapt a few centimetres on her desk, emitting an unpleasant buzz like a dying insect. It was Padua, from the Guardia Civil. She hesitated, debating whether to answer. Padua had been one of those convinced Rosario had died in the flood; he had been personally involved in the search for her body, to corroborate his view, or for evidence that Rosario was still alive, to corroborate hers. She listened to his condolences and thanked him. As she put the phone down on the desk, it rang again. She refused the call, it was Markina again.
Deputy Inspector Zabalza put his head round the door; his face betrayed a look of anguish.
‘Boss, I think we’ve found something important.’
She beckoned him in.
‘As you requested, I made inquiries into Tabese’s medical background. The College of Physicians in Madrid had a listing for a Clínica Tabese in Las Rozas, operating from the seventies right up until the mid-nineties; the man who ran it was a certain Dr Tabese. I found someone at the College who remembered him; they told me he was a popular figure in Madrid society at that time, renowned for the novel methods he imported from the States. Dr Tabese passed away, they couldn’t say exactly when, although they did confirm that he’s buried in Hondarribia, where he lived after he stopped working as a psychologist. The reason why we initially found no trace of him is because he adopted the name of his clinic. His real name was Xabier Markina,’ he said, placing an enlarged black-and-white photograph on the desk in front of her.
‘Markina?’
‘Dr Xabier Markina was Judge Markina’s father.’
Shocked by this revelation, Amaia studied the image. ‘Dr Tabese’ looked like an older version of his son.
She remembered him telling her that his father was a doctor, and that he’d died soon after his mother, consumed by grief at her repeated attempts to take her own life, for which she had been committed to a mental asylum. She picked up her phone and dialled Iriarte’s number. While she was speaking, Zabalza slipped back to his office.
‘Are you in Hondarribia yet?’
‘Almost,’ replied Iriarte.
‘I need you to go to the town hall and find out where Dr Tabese is buried. The College of Physicians in Madrid has just confirmed that he was a doctor of psychology who practised from the seventies through to the nineties at Clínica Tabese, a private facility for wealthy clients. He retired and went to live in Hondarribia. Apparently he died there. He may be registered under his real name: Xabier Markina. Tabese was Judge Markina’s father.’
Iriarte remained silent, while in the background she heard a long drawn-out whistle from Montes, who was presumably driving and following the conversation on speakerphone.
‘Be discreet, ask to see the death certificate as well as the funeral records of the cemetery where he is buried.’
She was about to hang up when Iriarte said: ‘San Martín called to tell us about your mother … I don’t know what to say, Inspector, we were wrong and you were right. This isn’t the time to discuss it, but I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay, don’t worry about it,’ she replied.
After ending the call, she took out Jonan’s memory stick, switched off her computer, and picked up her coat. She was waiting for the lift when, on impulse, she turned and made her way to the office where Zabalza was working.
‘Do you want to come with me?’
Without replying, he took his service revolver out of the drawer, slipped it into its holster and fell in behind her.
They got into her car and she drove in silence until they reached the outskirts of Pamplona. She pulled over at a petrol station, and asked:
‘Do you like driving? I need to think.’
He grinned.
Four hundred and fifty kilometres without talking was more than Deputy Inspector Zabalza could endure. With the restraint of someone who has rehearsed the question a hundred times, he asked whether she’d mind if he put on some music. She nodded. Two hours into the journey, he switched off the radio, interrupting her thoughts.
‘I’ve cancelled the wedding,’ he announced.
She stared at him in astonishment. Avoiding her gaze, he kept his eyes fixed on the road. Aware of how awkward this must be for Zabalza and not wishing to embarrass him further, she said nothing, and looked away again.
‘The fact is, I should never have let things get that far. It was a mistake from the start … And do you know what’s so awful? It was Etxaide’s death that gave me the courage.’ She glanced at him, then turned her eyes back to the road. ‘That evening at his parents’ house, I met his friends, his partner … Well, it was a revelation to me. Jonan’s parents were so proud of him … And the funeral wasn’t a pretence like most of them are, full of empty praise for someone because they’ve just died. Did you see the way they were towards his partner?’ Amaia nodded. ‘I listened to his friends talk about him for hours, things he had said, his thoughts … And it made me realise that I hadn’t known him at all, probably because he stood for everything I want to be, everything I’m not. I don’t care what Internal Affairs say, and I won’t care about the predictable outcome of their investigation: Jonan Extaide was an honest guy, loyal and dependable. And he was brave – he had the guts to live his life.’
He fell silent. After a few seconds, Amaia asked:
‘Are you okay?’
‘No, but I’ll be fine. Right now I’m still suffering the after-effects of dropping a bombshell, but I feel better in myself, so if you need me to put in more hours, work late, or drive to the Sahara, I’ll be glad to keep busy.’ She was about to speak when he added: ‘And by the way, you were right. Remember what you said in Arizkun, the night of the desecration? About me identifying with that boy, his inability to face life, his feeling of being trapped. You were right, I was wrong.’
‘You don’t need to—’
‘Yes, I do. I need to explain so that you can trust me.’
‘Yes,’ she grinned. ‘What was it you called me? “That fucking star cop!”’
‘Yes, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be, I like the name. I’m thinking of having it embroidered on my FBI cap – that should cause a stir among the American agents.’
Zabalza switched the radio back on.
Clínica La Luz was situated in an old building, the style of which might have been an example of Eastern Bloc architecture, but which, ironically, was all the rage during the Franco era, primarily for government offices. Its proximity to the military base at Torrejón de Ardoz gave some idea of what it had been used for in bygone days. They left the car in an over-sized car park, where a huddle of vehicles occupied the row of spaces nearest the building.
The security at the clinic lagged behind that of the psychiatric unit at Nuestra Señora de las Nieves, or the University Hospital in Pamplona, where her mother had been interned. There were no guards, just a large iron gate with an intercom panel. They pressed the buzzer and, when asked to identify themselves, replied: Police.
The reception area was deserted, save for a dozen trolleys heaped with towels, sponges and incontinence pads, lined up against the far wall. But what struck them immediately as they walked through the door was the smell. It reeked of urine, faeces, boiled vegetables and cheap cologne. They made their way to the counter, where they were met by a woman of about fifty dressed in a skirt suit. She walked straight up to them, extending her hand.
‘Good afternoon, I’m Eugenia Narvaez. The receptionist told me you’re from the police department,’ she said, studying their faces. ‘I hope there isn’t a problem.’
‘No, there’s no problem. I’m Inspector Salazar, and this is Deputy Inspector Zabalza. We’d like to talk to you about one of your former patients.
’
Relief flooded the woman’s face.
‘About a patient, why, of course,’ she said, beckoning them to follow her to the reception desk. She sat down in front of the computer, fingers poised over the keyboard, and looked up at them expectantly.
‘This patient was admitted to the clinic some years ago, and I believe she died here. Her name was Sara Durán.’
Eugenia Narvaez looked at them, puzzled.
‘There must be some mistake, Sara Durán has been a patient here for many years, and she’s still very much alive – or she was a few minutes ago when I gave her her medication,’ she said, smiling.
‘Well, that is a surprise,’ replied Amaia. ‘We’d like to see her, if you have no objection.’
‘None at all,’ said the woman, ‘although I ought to warn you that you won’t get much sense out of her. Sara’s notion of reality is very different from yours or mine – her mind is confused. She is also extremely highly strung, prone to crying one minute and laughing the next. Don’t be alarmed if she exhibits this behaviour, just keep talking to her as if nothing’s happened. I’ll call one of the orderlies to take you to her,’ she said, picking up the receiver.
Twenty chairs stood lined up in front of the television, which was showing a cowboy film. A dozen or so residents were seated in the chairs closest to the set. The orderly approached the only woman in the group.
‘Sara, you have visitors. This lady and gentleman have come to see you.’
The woman looked at him incredulously, and then at them. A broad smile spread across her face. She stood up without too much difficulty, coquettishly linking arms with the orderly, who guided her to the far corner of the room where four chairs were arranged around a circular table.
She was painfully thin, her wrinkled face gaunt to the point of emaciation. And yet, her hair, which she wore in a ponytail, wasn’t thick and shiny, not yet completely white but streaked with silver and grey. Sara was still in her nightdress, although it was past four in the afternoon. Over it, she wore a buttoned-up dressing gown, covered in food stains.
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