52
Early Mass at the Cathedral in Pamplona took place at seven thirty in the morning, and attendance was low. Amaia waited by the side door, the only one open at that time, until she saw Father Sarasola’s chauffeur-driven car pull up outside. When she was sure the priest had seen her, she entered, making her way to one of the side altars, where she sat down in the back pew. A minute later, Father Sarasola joined her.
‘I can see I’m not alone in knowing everything that goes on in Pamplona. I come here every morning, but if you wanted to speak to me, you could have called. I would have picked you up in my car …’
‘Forgive me for turning up out of the blue, but there’s something I need to talk to you about, urgently. Dr Berasategui’s behaviour fascinates me as much as it does you and your colleagues at the Vatican; in fact, he probably has the most complex profile of anyone I’ve ever encountered. Quantico would pay good money to be able to analyse the behaviour of an instigator who commits murder by channelling other men’s anger, who convinces them to take their cruelty to such extreme levels, and yet who is discriminating enough to select a particular type of victim. Until recently, profilers were so focused on the mind of the criminal that they scarcely noticed their victims, who were merely the end point of a series of actions. And yet, there’s a reason why wolves attack sheep when they could just as well hunt rabbits, foxes or rats: they enjoy the taste of their flesh, their fear, their terrified bleating. All the tarttalo’s victims were women originally from Baztán, most of whom had left the valley, but there was a definite pattern. We know how Berasategui chose the men who would carry out the killings: as a psychiatrist, he dealt with every type of behavioural disorder. It was as easy as choosing from a menu at a restaurant. Given his expertise, we understand how he was able to manipulate those men. What we don’t know is how he chose his victims. After his arrest, when I taunted him for having used such a bunch of losers to carry out his crimes, he told me he had never intended to shift the blame on to them, that they were merely actors performing his work. He saw himself as a kind of stage director. Prompting them to kill those women was Act One; Act Two was when he, the true author, collected his trophy by amputating their forearms. That also struck me as odd. I couldn’t understand why a killer as meticulous as Berasategui would choose such a vulgar trophy, with all the problems that preserving it would entail. That is, until I understood the meaning of the cave where he collected them, and I realised they were offerings to the savage creature whose name he had taken.’
Sarasola listened, leaning in until his head was almost brushing her ear. She spoke in hushed tones, her voice barely more than a whisper:
‘I now realise: he didn’t choose those men, he chose the victims. Yesterday, someone drew my attention to a detail that had escaped me and I began to look again at his choice of victims. Women from Baztán, women who no longer lived in Baztán, women who were born there, who sometimes died many miles away, yet who ended up as offerings in a cave in the valley. Just as those teenage girls in the basajaun case ended up as offerings to the river.’
Sarasola sat up, startled.
‘Stripped of all traces of adulthood, naked and shaved like little girls, barefoot, without any make-up, offerings to innocence, to tradition, robbed of air until they died.’
Raising his hand, Sarasola rubbed his eyes as though trying to erase the image.
‘Víctor Oyarzabal was the son of a domineering mother. He started to drink at an early age in an attempt to control his murderous impulses. And for a while, he succeeded. I once asked him how he managed it, and he told me he had been in therapy. I mentioned the local AA group, but he said he preferred the anonymity of a group in Irún. I imagine I’ll have no difficulty finding out who led that group, but why waste time if you are able to confirm my suspicions. Tell me, Father, did Dr Berasategui’s files mention whether he treated a man named Víctor Oyarzabal, otherwise known as the basajaun?’
When Sarasola nodded in reply, she shook her head and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, burying her face in her hands.
‘You weren’t going to tell me!’ she said, astonished.
Sarasola took a deep breath. ‘Believe me when I tell you it’s for the best.’
‘The best for whom? Can’t you see how monstrous this is?’
‘Those men are dead; Berasategui is dead; you have the facts and you’ve closed the case without my help.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong; this isn’t over. While I was watching the CCTV footage at the clinic yesterday, I felt an overwhelming sense of frustration. At first I didn’t know why, but then I realised that I always feel like that when I’m not satisfied with a result. Tell me something: if Berasategui was the instigator, then who made him take his own life? Because there’s one thing I’m sure of: that wasn’t his decision. When I interviewed him the morning he died, he sounded more like a man preparing to escape than someone about to kill himself. Who ordered him and Rosario to take their own lives? Your protected witness may be describing things that happened thirty years ago, but this sect is as alive now as it was then – and possibly even more powerful, better organised, knowledgeable. Unlike the dark, sinister figures in Goya’s paintings of witches, they’re not easily identifiable as practitioners of ritual sacrifice – instead they enjoy the trappings of wealth and success, occupying positions of power and influence. Our society is riddled with them! So, stop hiding the truth, Dr Sarasola. You’ve read Berasategui’s files, what made him choose those women?’
The priest crossed himself, bowing his head as he said a prayer. He was appealing for help. She waited patiently, eyes fixed on him.
At last Sarasola looked at her.
‘Remember what the witness said: “No one leaves the sect, they always make you pay.”’
‘Are you saying that at some point those women belonged to the sect?’
‘They, or their relatives or partners. What is clear is that they owed a debt. None of them were able to have children, except for Lucía Aguirre, but by then her daughters were too old. Those women could no longer be offered to Inguma – or produce offerings themselves – but they could be offered to a lesser god, greedy for flesh.’
‘And the girls by the river?’
‘Unfinished business.’
‘So they used Víctor …’
‘Víctor and others like him. You can’t make someone a psychopath, but if you take their obsessions and channel them, you obtain a faithful servant. That’s the way death cults operate. They identify the weaknesses in their followers, who usually share the same type of personality: they are obedient, not very bright, easily manipulated. The sect leaders begin by breaking them down, and then they recreate them at will. They are reborn within the sect, which loves, protects, respects and listens to them, it provides them with a place in the world where they feel important, possibly for the first time in their lives.’
‘Damaged goods,’ whispered Amaia.
‘Damaged goods, invaluable to a cult leader who knows how to bend them to his will.’
She rose from the pew, leaning forward to take her leave of Sarasola.
‘Pray for me, Father.’
‘I always do.’
53
Amaia had been sitting in her car outside the Navarre Institute of Forensic Medicine for twenty minutes. It was still early, and the staff hadn’t started to arrive yet. Propped against the steering wheel, she had leaned her head forward to take a brief rest. Three gentle taps on the glass interrupted her reverie. She saw Dr San Martín and lowered the window.
‘Salazar, what brings you here?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied.
She accepted a coffee out of the machine, which San Martín insisted was his treat, and followed him to his office, holding the paper cup by the rim to avoid scalding herself.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to see her?’
‘No, but I do have a few questions.’
San Martín shrugged, motioning with a ge
sture for her to continue.
‘I want to know about her physical condition. I think that may give us some idea as to where she spent this past month.’
‘All right, well, she was hydrated, organ perfusion was good, circulation to the limbs normal, her skin was in good condition, she presented no wounds, cuts or abrasions that might indicate exposure to inclement weather. I would rule out the possibility that she fell in the river. We have her clothes, which, although bloodstained, were appropriate to the weather and of good quality. She was wearing flat shoes, no watch, bracelets or rings, no ID. Overall, she seemed in good shape and well nourished.’
‘Anything else?’
He shrugged.
‘You ought to see her. This woman has dogged you for so long that she’s become unreal to you, like a bad dream. You need to make her real.’
‘I’ve seen the CCTV footage at the clinic.’
‘It’s not the same, Amaia. Your mother is lying dead in a refrigerated drawer, don’t let her turn into a phantom.’
The morgue was located in an annexe right next to the autopsy room. San Martín switched on the lights and went over to the first drawer of the bottom tier. As he pulled the handle a trolley slid out upon which the body lay. He glanced at Amaia, who stood silently beside him. Seizing the sheet by the corners, he uncovered the corpse.
An enormous, dark seam in the customary Y incision ran from the shoulders to the pelvis. Another dark line travelled from the left ear downwards at a slight angle. Although the gash wasn’t terribly deep, in the centre she glimpsed the pinkish presence of the trachea. The right hand, which had wielded the knife, was caked with blood, but the nails on her other hand appeared manicured. Her hair was noticeably shorter than on the day of her escape from the clinic with Berasategui, and her face, twisted at the moment of death, was completely relaxed now, limp, like a rubber mask discarded after a carnival.
San Martín was right. This was no demon; merely the corpse of a worn out old woman. She wished again that she could experience the feeling of liberation she so desperately needed, a sense of relief, that it was all over. But instead, a series of images invaded her thoughts, memories that weren’t hers because she had never experienced them: memories of her mother giving her a cuddle, calling her ‘darling’, of birthdays with cakes and smiles, memories of loving hands bestowing caresses she had never received, but which by virtue of dreaming about them, imagining them, had become true experiences, cherished memories. San Martín’s hand on her shoulder sufficed. She turned towards him and wept like a child.
Ibai hadn’t been sleeping well since they arrived in the States, and every night he would wake up crying. James assumed this was due to the upheaval of the journey, together with the time difference and the change of habits. He took Ibai in his arms, cradled him, sang silly made-up songs, until the boy finally gave in and flopped on his father’s shoulder, eyes closed. James put him down in the cot Clarice had bought, which he had succeeded in moving into his bedroom, not without some opposition from his mother. He remained for a while, watching Ibai. His face, usually so relaxed, reflected the disquiet that spread to his limbs, making his body give little jolts as it slipped willingly into oblivion.
‘You miss your mama, don’t you,’ he whispered to the slumbering baby, who sighed, as if he had understood. Ibai’s melancholy tugged at James’s heartstrings. With a worried look, he picked up his mobile from the bedside table, checking for the umpteenth time his text messages and emails but finding none from her. He looked at the time, two o’clock in the morning, eight o’clock in Baztán. Amaia would be up and about. He placed his finger on the call button. As he pressed it, he felt his heart leaping in his chest, reminding him of how he had felt the first few times he spoke to her in the early days after they met. The ring tone reached him clearly, and he imagined her phone buzzing like a dying insect on her bedside table, or at the bottom of her bag. He listened until it went to voicemail. Then he ended the call, looked again at his sleeping son, his eyes welling up as he thought about how silences, unspoken words and unanswered calls can contain such a clear message.
Amaia took the stairs, checking the time on her phone. She saw the missed call from James, presumably from when she was in the cathedral with Sarasola. She deleted it, promising to herself that she would call him at the first opportunity. She glanced sideways at the coffee machine, acknowledging that the lack of sleep must be catching up with her, as she felt tempted by the ridiculous paper cups. She entered the meeting room to find her colleagues contemplating the whiteboard, aghast.
‘What’s this supposed to mean?’ asked Iriarte, the moment she walked in.
She sensed his hostility, as did Montes and Zabalza, who turned towards her uneasily.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ she said, stopping dead in her tracks.
She casually deposited her bag and coat on a chair, waiting for them to return her greeting. When there was no response, she approached the board and stood face to face with Inspector Iriarte.
‘I assume you’re referring to the inclusion of the basajaun and tarttalo murders in the latest victim count.’
‘No, I’m referring to you taking two closed cases and linking them to the current one.’
‘Technically, yes, the deaths of Víctor Oyarzabal and Dr Berasategui brought both investigations to an abrupt halt. But there’s a world of difference between that and saying the cases are closed.’
‘I disagree. Those men were the sole perpetrators of their crimes, and the other people involved are dead.’
‘Perhaps not all of them …’
‘Inspector, I’ve no idea where you are going with this, but to establish a connection between those two cases and this one, you’ll need something concrete.’
‘And I have it. Father Sarasola has confirmed that Víctor Oyarzabal was Berasategui’s patient; he gave him anger-management therapy, just like all the other killers involved in his crimes.’
Montes gave a long, meaningful whistle, which earned him a reproving look from both of them. Iriarte turned towards the images of the girls.
‘Sarasola – a perfect witness, because he’ll deny everything he has said before Judge Markina, which means we have nothing.’
‘Inspector, I have no intention of taking this to Markina. And you can’t deny that this information is vital to the investigation.’
‘I disagree,’ he said, digging his heels in. ‘Those cases are closed, the culprits are dead. I don’t understand why you insist on turning a case of grave robbery into a mystery of epic proportions. Stealing corpses is a simple offence against public health.’
‘Is that what you think this is? Grave robbery? Have you forgotten the suffering it has caused the mothers, the families …?’
Iriarte lowered his eyes, offering no reply.
‘… Apparently, you’ve also forgotten that Deputy Inspector Etxaide was working on this when he was murdered. Or are you going to tell me that your by the book attitude also means you’ve accepted Inspector Clemos’s version of events?’
Iriarte shot an angry look at her. His face had turned bright red, as if he were about to have a stroke.
He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ she said. ‘They’re waiting for us at Igantzi. Something tells me that Inspector Iriarte won’t be joining us today.’
54
A luxury four-by-four rolled up behind the police car parked outside the cemetery gates. A steep flight of steps led to a narrow path bordered by thick bushes, at the end of which was a tiny shrine. Two men and a woman stood beneath its scant eaves, huddled under umbrellas. Amaia signalled to Montes to go on ahead, while she returned to the parked vehicle.
Yolanda Berrueta lowered the window.
‘Yolanda? I didn’t know they’d sent you home.’
‘I discharged myself. I feel much better; staying in hospital wasn’t doing me any good. I’ll return as an out-patient to have my dressings changed
,’ she said, raising her bandaged arm, which, although less swollen, still looked very cumbersome.
‘What are you doing here?’
Yolanda looked over at the cemetery.
‘You know perfectly well what I’m doing.’
‘Yolanda, you mustn’t be here; you should be in hospital, or resting at home. Fortunately for you, the magistrate accepted a bail bond – he could have kept you in prison for what you did, but don’t push your luck.’ She pointed at the bandages: ‘In fact, you shouldn’t be driving in your condition.’
‘I’m no longer on medication.’
‘I don’t just mean the medication. Driving one-handed, and with one eye …’
‘Are you going to arrest me?’
‘I probably should, for your own good. Go home, Yolanda.’
‘No,’ she said resolutely. ‘You can’t stop me from being here.’
Amaia sighed, shaking her head.
‘Okay, but I want you to call your father and tell him to come and pick you up. If I see you driving, I’ll have to arrest you.’
Yolanda gave a nod and raised the window.
The gravediggers stood in a circle around the slab, which they proceeded to raise.
As previously instructed, the woman told one of them:
‘Would you please go down to make sure no water has got into the tomb?’
Helped by one of his colleagues, the man lowered the ladder and climbed down. When he reached the bottom, the woman spoke to him again:
‘From up here, it looks as if my daughter’s coffin has been moved since the funeral. Could you make sure everything is in order?’
The man shone his torch at the seal as he ran his hand over it.
‘This looks to me like it’s been tampered with. The lid is open,’ he added, raising it to reveal the empty coffin.
Amaia turned to the woman, who was leaning inside the tomb; her black umbrella lowered, partially eclipsing her face. She raised her eyes, and said dolefully:
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