Offering to the Storm

by Dolores Redondo

  ‘You may not believe me, but I knew it all along. A mother’s instinct.’

  Yolanda Berrueta, who was standing at a discreet distance, murmured in agreement.

  Amaia didn’t return to the police station. The last thing she wanted was another confrontation with Iriarte. Besides, she was too tired to think straight.

  Montes had gone to bring the woman’s ex-husband in for questioning. At midday, just as she was pulling up in front of her aunt’s house, he called to tell her that, by strange coincidence, the husband had gone away only yesterday, after his cousin, who worked for the council, tipped him off about the scheduled repairs to the family tomb.

  As always when she arrived feeling particularly exhausted, the house received her in its protective embrace, with its pleasant aroma of furniture wax, which her brain interpreted as the warmest of welcomes. She refused Engrasi’s offer of food, despite her aunt’s insistence that she should eat something hot. Leaving her boots at the bottom of the stairs and pulling off her thick jumper, she went up, sensing the warmth of the wood beneath her stockinged feet. As soon as she entered the bedroom, she slumped on to the bed, covering herself with the duvet. Despite her fatigue, or perhaps because of it, after two hours’ rest she was left with the bittersweet sensation of broken sleep, during which her brain had remained in a state of high alert. She remembered going over facts, faces, names, virtually the whole of her conversation with Sarasola, as well as the protected witness’s statement, and her quarrel with Iriarte. She opened her eyes, tired, and bored of her own efforts to think about something else. Even so, she was surprised when she looked at the clock. She would have sworn that she’d been lying there for no more than ten minutes.

  She took a shower, got dressed, and spent a few minutes trying to get through to a nurse who confirmed that Dr Takchenko’s condition was stable. After a glance at her reflection in the glass, she went downstairs to appease Engrasi by eating something. Then she took to the road again.

  Parking in Irún at that time of day was impossible. The streets were overrun with parents collecting their kids from school, people leaving work or doing the afternoon shopping. After driving round in circles for a while, they decided to leave the car in an underground car park.

  Marina Lujambio and her father had arranged to meet them at a café. Montes made the introductions and, once everyone had a cup of coffee in front of them, Amaia explained the situation. She mentioned Berasategui and his relationship to the bereavement therapy group. Sparing no details when describing his cruelty, the power he had over others, his ability to manipulate his patients, she avoided mentioning the sacrifices in Elizondo and Lesaka, and the theory that this might be the work of a sect. She told them the Esparza story, from Valentín Esparza’s attempt to make off with his daughter’s body, to the sacking of the family tomb in Elizondo, as well as that morning’s events in Igantzi. She revealed that these cases all involved baby girls who had allegedly died of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, and mentioned the relationship between the dead girls’ parents and the lawyer couple from Pamplona, as well as the therapy group at Argi Beltz to which the woman’s ex-husband had belonged. The woman, aged around forty, said little. Her father, who was in his mid sixties, wore a smart suit and had a beard like a Canadian lumberjack, listened impassively. However, when Amaia had finished talking, he surprised her with his forthright response.

  ‘Your colleague will have informed you that I’m a Justice of the Peace here in Irún. Obviously, it would be improper for me to authorise the opening of my own family tomb. But, as your colleague pointed out, and the council has confirmed, we have the right to carry out repairs on the internal structure, or to replace the slab, providing this is done after eight o’clock in the evening when the cemetery closes. There are certain stipulations: for example, the gravedigger is prohibited from opening a coffin unless it has clearly been tampered with. If my granddaughter’s body isn’t in the tomb, I can assure you that you’ll have no difficulty obtaining an order from a magistrate here in Irún to open that other family’s tomb.’

  ‘Thank you, your honour, but that won’t be necessary. This case is with a magistrate in Pamplona, and I shall be informing him shortly of your willingness to proceed. If things turn out the way you’ve described, he will forward us the necessary paperwork.’

  Satisfied with this response, Judge Lujambio extended his hand.

  ‘Until tomorrow evening at eight, then.’

  The coastal light she loved so much had vanished by the time they arrived in Hondarribia. The evening was tranquil and warm, a foretaste of the long-awaited spring, which seemed already to have made an appearance in that beautiful region. She parked next to the cemetery where they would be opening the tomb the next day, and followed Montes and Zabalza inside. A few visitors still lingered, encouraged perhaps by the mild weather. She inhaled the warm sea breeze, mixed with the scent of fresh-cut flowers on the graves. The Lujambio family tomb was a simple, grey marble stone, laid flat on the ground, illuminated by the wrought-iron streetlamps. Amaia went over to examine the portraits set in the slab, showing the faces of the people resting inside. Most seemed to date from the sixties, the custom having fallen into disuse. On the adjacent path stood the tomb of the López family, who had refused to cooperate. Instead of flowers, two well-tended pots stood on the grave. They retraced their steps, towards the entrance, pausing close to the tomb they had gone there to visit. She recognised it from the photograph Iriarte had sent to her mobile: it stood at an angle to the other graves in the cemetery, set apart by four granite posts with a heavy chain suspended between them. It made her think of Mormon graves. At the head stood a memorial stone, with the traditional rounded shape, and below that, covering the original name on the tomb, a plaque bearing a single word: Tabese. She was unable to see if any other names were inscribed on the raised slab, which was buried beneath a carpet of huge white flowers. A lowish wall ran behind the tomb. They went round to inspect the back. The area was reserved for cemetery staff. Propped against the wall were two rolls of blue tarpaulin, like the one used to cover the Tremond-Berrueta tomb in Ainhoa, a thick piece of rope coiled into what looked like a sailor’s knot, and a rusty wheelbarrow. Next to the far wall they saw a garden tap above an open drain. On a makeshift table covered in a wire mesh lay some soggy remains. This was the method used to separate bones from soft tissue when graves were emptied after the lease had expired. The bones were then tossed into a pit.

  ‘Fuck, it’s disgusting!’ exclaimed Montes, wrinkling his nose.

  Amaia continued along the wall until she found the back of Tabese’s tomb, and the three steps leading down to the crypt. At the bottom stood a heavy wooden door, so low it would require anyone entering to stoop. She cursed herself for having left her torch in the car. Taking out her mobile, she switched on the flashlight app, which gave off sufficient light for her to see by. The door was weathered, making it impossible to see the type of wood, but if it was anywhere near as old as the lock, then it must have been ancient. Leaning forward, she wondered how a coffin could possibly fit through that tiny space. She noticed a pile of leaves by the wall, at right angles to the door. Lowering her mobile to the floor she saw a clear circle left by the door as it opened on the sandstone floor. Then she examined the hinges, covered in grime, except where the two leaves joined; there the light from her phone clearly detected a glint of clean metal.

  ‘Tabese was supposed to have died fifteen years ago,’ said Montes, assessing her discovery. ‘And according to the cemetery register we saw yesterday, he is the only occupant.’

  ‘Well, someone has been in there recently.’

  Amaia stood on tiptoes to look over the wall, and was dazzled by a camera flash. As she walked back around the wall, she saw another flash in the distance, and heard Zabalza intercepting someone. She had an idea who it might be, but was still astonished to discover Yolanda talking to the Deputy Inspector.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Yolanda, what are you doing her
e? What did I say to you this morning?’

  ‘I came in a taxi,’ Yolanda replied.

  ‘Yes, but why are you here?’

  Yolanda pursed her lips defiantly.

  ‘That’s enough, Yolanda. I’ve been very patient with you, but it’s time you went home. I’m warning you, if I find you here again tomorrow, I’ll arrest you for obstructing an investigation.’

  Undeterred, Yolanda stepped forward and took another picture, her camera flash illuminating the entire cemetery.

  Amaia turned to her colleagues with a look of incredulity at the woman’s stubbornness.

  ‘Come here, Inspector,’ Yolanda called out.

  Amaia went over to her.

  ‘Have you noticed those flowers?’ she said. Resting the camera on her bandaged arm she showed Amaia an enlarged image on the screen. ‘Strange, don’t you think? They look like tiny babies asleep in their cradles.’

  Amaia frowned at the grotesque comparison, and yet, as she studied the image of the flower, she found herself mesmerised by its beauty. The ivory-coloured petal was furled around the pink centre, which bore an uncanny resemblance to a miniature baby with outstretched arms. Yolanda handed her the camera and, stepping over the lowest part of the chain, she leaned over the tomb and plucked one of the extraordinary flowers from its stem.

  Amaia went to her aid as she stepped back over the chain but Yolanda shrugged her off, putting away the camera before stalking off towards the gates without saying a word.

  ‘Remember what I told you, Yolanda.’ The woman raised a hand without turning around and left the cemetery.

  ‘Mad as a box of frogs!’ declared Fermín, shaking his head.

  ‘Do you have the number of the florist who brings the orchids?’ asked Amaia.

  An assistant answered the phone, and after listening to her question, passed the receiver to the owner.

  ‘Yes, Señor Tabese must have been a man of exquisite taste. As I told your colleague, we specialise in orchids. I grow some myself, but we import the rarer varieties from a man in Colombia, who grows the finest, most unusual orchids in the world. This particular orchid is called Anguloa uniflora, and, yes, it looks just like a little baby in its cradle. There’s one that resembles a beautiful ballerina, and another with a little monkey face in the middle, and still another shaped like a magnificent heron in flight, so perfect you’d think it was hand-crafted. But Anguloa uniflora is the most astonishing of all. I read that in some parts of Colombia it was considered unlucky; if a woman received one while she was pregnant, it was a sure sign that her baby would die.’

  Realising that by his own admission he could talk for hours about the fascinating world of orchids, Amaia interrupted the florist’s soliloquy, thanked him, and hung up.

  She followed Montes’s car towards Elizondo, still chuckling to herself about the absurd discussion, only half in jest, which he and Zabalza had engaged in outside the cemetery, about which of them was the better driver. She honked her horn by way of a goodbye, as they took the turning to Elizondo. Then the screen on her mobile lit up on the dashboard, signalling a call from an unknown number.

  ‘Good evening, my name is Professor Santos. Dr Gonzalez asked me to analyse a fabric sample for you.’

  ‘Ah, yes, thank you, I’m most grateful.’

  ‘We three go back a long way, and they know I take great pleasure in my work. I have some news for you about the sample. The cloth is silk satin, very fine quality, a strong fabric, which the weaver achieves by blending silk thread with other fibres to produce a perfectly smooth appearance. My immediate thought was that this might be raw silk imported from India, woven here in Europe, and I wasn’t mistaken. My task was made a lot easier because the cloth bears a signature. Because it is resilient, clothiers often use it to make ties, waistcoats and other high-quality garments.’

  ‘You said it has a signature?’

  ‘Yes, a manufacturer will occasionally introduce tiny variations in the weave to produce a signature; but in this case the client has requested a sort of stamp, an emblem, which is visible to the naked eye. Despite having been subjected to intense heat, it has yielded some interesting information. The cloth comes from a bespoke tailor in London; naturally, I am unable to access their client list, but I imagine you will find that easier.’

  ‘You said that the sample has been exposed to high temperatures?’

  ‘There’s no evidence of direct exposure to flames, but, yes, it has been close to a powerful source of heat.’

  ‘And the initials on the fabric?’

  ‘Oh, they aren’t initials. Did I give you that impression? It’s a coat of arms. This tailor is famous for having dressed gentlemen and aristocrats dating back to the time of Henry VIII.’

  55

  Mentally, she had gone over what she was going to say, how she would explain the progress she had made, and her urgent need for his help. And yet as she stood outside Markina’s front door, she was assailed with doubts about the effect her words might have. Things had been strained between them those past few days, and the unanswered calls had been accumulating on her mobile. The conversation wasn’t going to be easy.

  Markina opened the door and paused for a moment, surprised. Then he smiled at her. Without saying a word, he placed his hand round the nape of her neck and drew her to his mouth.

  All the explanations she had rehearsed, hoping to convince him, melted away, as he held her in an almost frenzied embrace, his warm, moist lips on hers.

  He cupped her face in his hands, holding her out at arm’s length so that he could look at her.

  ‘Don’t ever do that again, I’ve been going crazy waiting for you to come back, to call, for some news of you,’ he said, kissing her again. ‘Don’t ever leave me like that again.’

  She pulled away, smiling at her own weakness, at how such a simple action felt so difficult.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Later,’ he said, embracing her once more.

  She closed her eyes, surrendering to his kisses, to the urgency of his touch, aware of how intensely she desired him, the way nothing else mattered when she was in his arms. He still had on the grey suit he wore to the courthouse, and his briefcase and coat discarded on a chair suggested he had just got home. While they kissed, she slipped his jacket over his shoulders, feeling for his shirt buttons, which she undid, planting a string of tiny kisses along the line of stubble on his chin.

  She was aware of the distant ring of her telephone, a million light years away from where she found herself at that instant. Tempted to ignore it until the ringing stopped, she stifled the voice in her head urging her to carry on, and pulled away at the last moment, to hurriedly answer the call.

  James’s voice reached her as clearly as if he were standing beside her.

  ‘Hi, Amaia.’

  She felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. Overwhelmed by a sense of remorse and shame, she instinctively turned away, straightening her clothes as if she were on view.

  ‘James. What’s wrong?’ she blurted.

  ‘You tell me, Amaia. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days, but you don’t pick up. Your aunt told me about Rosario.’

  She closed her eyes.

  ‘I can’t talk right now, I’m at work,’ she said, hating herself for lying to him.

  ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘Not yet—’

  The call ended abruptly; James had hung up on her, but instead of feeling relief she had a sense of utter despair.

  Markina had retreated to the kitchen area and was pouring two glasses of wine. He handed one to her.

  ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’ he said, pretending he hadn’t overheard the conversation, and ignoring her unease. ‘If it’s about your visit to my mother, then it’s all forgotten; I should have known that the detective in you would be curious … I looked into you and your family when I met you …’

  ‘This is about your father.’ His expression clouded over. ‘You
asked me to bring you facts, solid evidence. You forced me to use subterfuge to be able to move the investigation forward, to meet your demands. This morning we opened a tomb in Igantzi.’

  ‘Without authorisation?’

  ‘As the owner of the plot, the little girl’s mother is permitted to do so in order to carry out repairs. The girl’s body is missing; all indications are that it was taken soon after she died. The father is abroad on a business trip, so we haven’t been able to question him.’ Markina was listening intently, his expression an amalgam of interest and scepticism. ‘Tomorrow evening we’re opening up another tomb in Hondarribia. In this case, the girl’s mother, who has been divorced from her husband for years, is the daughter of a justice of the peace in Irún. We have his full cooperation. We have established that the fathers of both the girl from Igantzi and the girl from Hondarribia have links through their businesses to the law firm Lejarreta & Andía, as well as to Berasategui’s bereavement group. We’re currently investigating a similar case in the same village, as well as two others in the Navarre region. If, as we expect, tomorrow evening we find that the girl’s body is missing, that makes three cases of desecration and body-snatching, all with links to the same group. Considering the crimes for which Berasategui was arrested, I believe that the logical next step is to open an official investigation.’ Markina said nothing. He looked serious, as he always did when he was thinking. ‘If this investigation goes ahead, your father’s name is bound to come out.’

  ‘If you’ve done your research, you’ll know that he abandoned my mother when she went mad. Before leaving, he set up a trust fund to cover my upbringing and education. I never saw him again.’

  ‘Did you not try to find him? Weren’t you interested in what he was doing?’

  ‘I could imagine: living the life of the millionaire playboy he was, travelling, sailing the yacht in which he would finally drown … I heard nothing from him until I was informed of his death. My parents’ marriage was no bed of roses; I would hear them quarrelling about his infidelity.’