She emptied her lungs, then took a deep breath:
‘According to our inquiries, in the seventies and early eighties while running an exclusive clinic in las Rozas, Dr Xabier Markina was also the leader of a sect with branches in Lesaka and Baztán, a sort of guru who initiated his followers into occult practices. We have a person in custody who has positively identified your father, and has confessed that he witnessed and took part in a human sacrifice performed on a newborn baby girl at a farmhouse in Lesaka. He also confirmed that they occasionally visited the group at Argi Beltz, in Baztán, who were preparing to carry out a similar sacrifice. The witness identified my mother as one of the members of that group. The daughter of two of the founding members, the Martínez-Bayóns, the present owners of Argi Beltz, died aged fourteen months, allegedly during a trip to the UK – a trip the girl never made. There is no record there of her death, nor of her burial, and no autopsy report. Nor did her name appear on either of her parent’s passports, which would have been the norm at the time.
‘Berasategui’s father has confessed to me that he and his wife gave up their baby girl in the same way, and that his wife’s subsequent depression was a direct result of that. Unable to accept what she’d done, she felt incapable of loving her new baby boy. I don’t know to what extent people are born psychopaths, or how much of it is down to lack of love and rejection,’ she said. She omitted to mention her suspicion that Sara Durán had been driven mad by guilt rather than grief. ‘I have a second witness who can confirm the link between Berasategui and other members of the group, their frequent visits to the house, as well as the photographs Yolanda Berrueta took of their cars parked outside Argi Beltz.’
Markina lowered his gaze, without saying anything.
‘There’s one other witness,’ Amaia went on. ‘He won’t testify, and he enjoys diplomatic immunity so we can’t force him. However, he had access to sensitive information, no longer available, which established that Víctor Oyarzabal, otherwise known as the basajaun killer, belonged to one of Dr Berasategui’s anger-management groups, from which he recruited patients whom he instigated to murder their own wives, all born in Baztán. I have sworn not to reveal his name, although I could probably persuade him at least to confirm what I’m saying to you.’
He wasn’t even looking at her.
‘You’ve certainly done your homework,’ he whispered.
‘I’m just doing my job.’
‘And what do you want me to do now?’ he said defiantly.
‘That’s for you to decide. I’m a detective, these are facts, I didn’t make them up,’ she replied. ‘Wasn’t this what you wanted? I promised you I wouldn’t go over your head again, and I haven’t.’
He sighed as he rose from his seat.
‘You’re right,’ he said, walking over to her. ‘I never expected my career to end like this; I was the youngest magistrate to join the judiciary, and now this thing I’ve been fleeing my whole life is going to destroy me.’
‘I don’t see why; you aren’t responsible for the actions of your parents.’
‘What future do you think there can be a magistrate whose mother is in a lunatic asylum and whose father was the leader of a satanic cult … Whether it’s proven or not, the mere association will ruin me.’
She gazed wistfully at him, as her phone, which she was still holding, started to ring again.
‘Inspector, this is Yolanda’s father speaking. I’m worried about her. When she came home this evening, she started printing off pictures of flowers and she wasn’t making much sense. You know she’s stopped taking her medication. She didn’t want dinner, and has just taken off in my car … I couldn’t stop her, and I’ve no idea where she’s gone.’
‘I think I know. Don’t worry, I’ll find her and bring her home.’
‘Inspector …’
‘Yes?’
‘When the police came to ask whether any more explosives were missing apart from the two hundred grams Yolanda used to blow up the tomb … Well, I think she may have taken a bit more – I didn’t want to get her into trouble.’
‘I have to go,’ she said to Markina. ‘Something’s come up,’ she added, grabbing the bag and coat she had left on the chair, next to Markina’s things. The navy blue overcoat he had draped over the back slipped on to the floor. She stooped to retrieve it, and as she picked it up she felt the silky texture of the lining; she folded it neatly inside out so that she could see the faint stamp on the fabric, repeated at intervals of a few centimetres, the signature of the tailor, whose name appeared in bright colours on a label stitched on the inside pocket. She replaced the coat on the chair, letting her fingers slide over the perfectly smooth fabric.
‘Do you want me to go with you?’ His voice rang out behind her.
She wheeled round, startled, as she saw him slip on the grey jacket she herself had just taken off him.
‘No, best not, this is more of a domestic situation.’
Overwhelmed by a rising tide of doubt threatening to engulf her, she made her way towards the door.
‘Will you come back here afterwards?’ asked Markina.
‘I’ve no idea how long this is going to take,’ she replied.
‘I’ll wait for you,’ he said, smiling in that way of his.
She climbed into the car, a million and one thoughts churning in her head. Her hands were shaking slightly as she fumbled for the ignition, and she dropped the key on the floor. Retrieving it from between her feet, she sat up, only to see Markina staring at her through the driver’s window.
Startled, she stifled a yell, placed the key in the ignition and lowered the window.
‘You made me jump!’ she said, trying to smile.
‘You left without giving me a kiss,’ he said.
She smiled, leaning sideways, and kissed him through the open window.
‘Are you going to drive with your coat on?’ he said, looking straight at her. ‘I thought you always took it off when you drove.’
Amaia stepped out of the car, letting him help her off with her coat, which she placed on the passenger seat. Markina held her in a firm embrace.
‘Amaia, I love you. I couldn’t bear to lose you.’
She smiled once more as she got back in the car, turned on the engine and waited for him to push the door shut.
In the rear-view mirror, she could see him standing, watching her drive away.
56
Oh, Jonan, how desperately she needed him. Her colleague had become the precision instrument of her thinking. Without him, the facts danced about chaotically in her head. She had grown accustomed to the exchange of ideas between them, his many suggestions and observations, and his barely contained silences, as he waited for her to emerge from her musings so that he could speak. She sighed, missing his presence in a way she knew would never leave her. She divided her attention between the motorway, darkening beneath the increasingly stormy skies, her impulse to chase after that crazy woman who she feared would succeed in blowing herself up, and her need to slow down, to put the world on pause, in order to think, re-evaluate, sort out the chaos in her head. A lightning flash illuminated the peaks where the storm goddess dwelt. She is coming.
A tailor’s signature stamp wasn’t absolute proof of guilt; on the other hand, how many men in the entire country wore tailor-made clothes from London … As Professor Santos had pointed out, with a warrant they would be able to see the client list of the exclusive tailor. The lining, like the coat itself, was navy blue, and yet she clearly remembered having seen him wearing a matching grey overcoat with that grey suit. In fact, this combination of the grey suit and the blue overcoat had struck her as odd the last time she saw him. Had it been anyone else, she wouldn’t have thought twice about it. She looked at her call register and pressed dial.
‘Professor Santos? This is Inspector Salazar, I’m sorry to bother you again.’
‘Don’t mention it, what can I do for you?’
‘I just had a thought. Could the h
eat damage to the fabric have been caused by a bullet being fired through it?’
‘The same thing occurred to me,’ replied the professor hesitantly, ‘but the sample is too small to survive such a test …’
‘That doesn’t matter, we have another sample. How long would it take you to run the test?’
A succession of lightning bolts cleaved the sky, illuminating the night for a few seconds afterwards, leaving a dark imprint on her retinas that was slow to fade.
‘I’ll need to run a Walker test to see if there’s any gunshot residue. I have the necessary equipment, but due to the size of the sample, the process of fixing and steam-ironing it will be tricky … I estimate it’ll take about twenty minutes.’
‘You’ve no idea how grateful I am. Let me know the minute you have the result. I’ll wait for your call.’ She hung up then dialled another number.
‘Good evening, boss, still working?’
‘Yes, as are you, Fermín. I need you to find out as quickly as possible which courthouse the weapon that killed Deputy Inspector Etxaide was taken from. Get Zabalza to help you if necessary, he may find it easier to access the information.’
The rain started to fall deafeningly on the roof of the car, and as a thunderclap shook the air, the call was cut off.
They had found a single bullet casing in Jonan’s apartment, although two shots had been fired. In her mind’s eye, Amaia saw Dr Hernández’s diagram on which she had marked the fatal wounds, tracing the trajectory of the two bullets that could have been fired from a sitting position – a theory she had later ruled out. Now another possibility occurred to Amaia: that Jonan’s killer had been facing him, and had shot him with a weapon concealed inside his pocket, or under his coat. That would explain the bullet’s upward trajectory, as well as how such a small strand of fabric had flown through the air, literally propelled by the force of the explosion, held aloft by its own buoyancy, until it became enmeshed in the coarser fibres of the curtain, which, being of a similar colour, concealed its presence.
Tears pricked her eyes as she thought of Jonan, her mind returning to the moment of his death. She pictured him opening the door, overcoming his initial surprise, smiling the way he always did, inviting his killer inside … She felt her heart implode with anguish, reverting to the scared little girl who lived inside her mind, praying to the god of all victims, eyes shut tight. She bit her lower lip so hard that she noticed the metallic taste of blood. A flash illuminated the night sky and the roar of thunder reached her like a living creature pursuing her across the valley. ‘The Lady is coming … She is coming.
She recognised the four-by-four belonging to Yolanda’s father parked outside the cemetery; her phone rang as she came to a stop behind it.
‘Hello, Professor.’
‘The test reveals a definite red stain resulting from the blast, which is consistent with gunshot residue.’
Amaia made sure she had her torch before getting out of the car and heading for the cemetery gate, which she saw was locked. She pulled up the hood of her coat, as the storm released its deluge of freezing rain. She imagined she heard a muffled blast, not much louder than a firecracker but which set the dogs guarding the allotments barking. It was instantly drowned out by the noise of thunder over Mount Jaizkibel. She found a stone close to the wall and managed to heave herself up and over. The streetlamps that had illuminated the cemetery earlier had been turned off, plunging it into complete darkness. From behind the wall at the back of Tabese’s tomb, a lone light shone out.
57
Inspector Iriarte was extremely agitated. He waited for the signal to turn out the lights then stood propped against the wall next to the light switch, listening to his family sing happy birthday around the lighted candles of his mother-in-law’s birthday cake. He detested confrontations, but falling out with a colleague was his worst nightmare. He normally went out of his way to avoid arguments, but there were times, like that morning, when it proved impossible.
His quarrel with Salazar had left a bad taste in his mouth, and despite having finally said his piece, he couldn’t help worrying that this might affect their future relationship. Salazar drove him nuts. Her unorthodox methods caused constant friction among her colleagues – a subject he had raised with her in the past, not that it had done any good. He was upset by her insinuation that being a stickler for the rules blinkered him. But what really fucked him off, fucked being the operative word, was her insinuation that he would be prepared to stand by and allow Deputy Inspector Etxaide to be crucified. The worst of it was that he too had been mulling over the question of Berasategui, and had reached the conclusion that closing the case on a man as complex as that was a risky move. Inspector Salazar’s theory made sense, but how could they follow developments when he knew for a fact that she was refusing to share information?
His wife turned on the lights, frowning at him. She ushered him out into the hallway.
‘Is something worrying you?’
He looked at her and smiled: she always knew exactly what was going on in his head.
‘No,’ he lied.
‘I shouted out three times for you to turn the lights back on and you didn’t even hear me. Anyway, you are worried, you can’t fool me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said earnestly.
She glanced at her noisy relatives in the kitchen, and then at him.
‘Go on, off with you!’
‘But what will your mother say?’
‘I’ll take care of Mother,’ she replied, standing on tiptoes to kiss him.
He had been sitting in front of the board taking notes for a while when Montes and Zabalza arrived.
‘What are you two doing here at this time?’ Iriarte asked, checking his watch.
Montes glanced at the board and the mound of papers spread out on the table.
‘The boss asked us to check something urgently.’
‘What is this about?’
‘She wants to know which courthouse in Madrid the weapon used to kill Extaide went missing from.’
‘I have that information, I was the one who told her about it. Why didn’t she ask me!’
‘Come on, Iriarte!’
‘Come on, what?’ he demanded, pushing back his seat, which almost fell over as he stood up. ‘Or do you share her opinion that I’m prepared to put up with anything for a quiet life?’
Montes replied in a calm voice:
‘This morning, you seemed to disagree with her decision to follow another line of investigation.’
‘And what investigation might that be? The one you’re working on now, about which I only know as much as she’s willing to tell me?’
Montes didn’t reply.
‘Why does she want this information? What is she up to?’
With a flash of annoyance, Montes replied:
‘I’m not sure … Jonan Extaide sent her some sort of message from beyond the grave, a timed email. It seems he had his own suspicions about where the case might be leading …’
‘And of course the inspector kept that information to herself. Do you see what I mean?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t call it information; this was a private email containing a few clues, no evidence, just speculations. And possibly not even that …’
Iriarte looked at them, visibly angry. Then he sighed. ‘It was court number one in Mostoles, Madrid. But I don’t see what importance that could possibly have.’
‘Judge Markina was assigned to that courthouse,’ declared Zabalza. ‘I read it the other day when I was looking into his father’s professional background. They have the same surname, and his came up first.’
A uniformed police officer poked his head round the door.
‘Boss, there’s a guy on the phone who insists on speaking to you. He called earlier, and I told him you weren’t here, but now that you are … He says he’s Yolanda Berrueta’s father.’
Benigno Berrueta quickly explained to Iriarte about his daughter, and how he had called Inspector Sal
azar. He’d heard nothing since and was getting extremely worried.
Iriarte hung up then dialled Salazar’s number. It was engaged. He tried again. They heard the whip-crack of lightning striking nearby. Seconds later the emergency lighting came on and they had to evacuate the building.
‘Not another fucking storm,’ groaned Montes.
Iriarte hung up.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, checking his gun as he headed for the door. Montes and Zabalza followed.
Amaia stood perfectly still for a few seconds, listening. Above the noise of the rain on the tombstone, she could hear the sound of wood being struck, and Yolanda’s panting breaths. Darting behind the wall at the back of the tomb, she reached the entrance to the crypt, and saw the beam from Yolanda’s torch swinging back and forth as she aimed kicks at the door.
‘Yolanda,’ she called out.
As Yolanda spun round, Amaia saw the look of determination in her eyes, her hair plastered to her brow beneath a rain hat. The blast had blown a hole in the door, damaging the lock, which had come loose, but was jammed between the door and the wall.
‘Step away from the door, Yolanda.’
‘I need to go inside; I think my daughter is in there. I didn’t want to use too much explosive this time, but it wasn’t enough. There’s more in the car.’
Amaia went up behind her, and put a hand on her shoulder.
Yolanda swung round angrily, throwing a surprise punch that made Amaia stagger backwards. She reached for her gun.
‘Yolanda!’ she cried.
The woman looked at her, her expression turned to one of utter bewilderment, and then a shot rang out next to Amaia’s ear, deafening her. Yolanda collapsed to the ground, a red stain spreading across her chest. Terrified, Amaia wheeled round, aiming her gun in the direction of the shot, until she saw Judge Markina’s sombre face through the rain.
‘What have you done?’ she asked, scarcely able to hear herself speak; her right ear was ringing from the blast and everything sounded as if she were underwater. She leaned over Yolanda, and felt for a pulse, Markina still in her sights.
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