The Invisible Guardian

by Redondo, Dolores

‘Yes, but I’m not talking about the weather.’

  ‘I am, though. I know you, you can never sleep if you’ve got cold feet, and that would be terrible for the investigation.’

  ‘James …’

  ‘I could come with you to keep them warm for you if you want,’ he said, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Would you seriously come with me?’

  ‘Of course I would, I’m well-ahead of schedule with my work and it would be nice to see your sisters and your aunt.’

  ‘We’d stay at her house.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘I’ll be quite busy and I won’t have much free time, though.’

  ‘I’ll play Mus or Poker with your aunt and her friends.’

  ‘They’ll clean you out.’

  ‘I’m very rich.’

  They both laughed at this and Amaia carried on talking about what they could do in Elizondo until she realised that James was asleep. She kissed him gently on the head and covered his shoulders with the duvet. When she got up to use the toilet she noticed bloody marks on the paper as she wiped herself. She looked at herself in the mirror as the tears welled up in her eyes. With her long hair falling over her shoulders she looked younger and more vulnerable, like the little girl she had once been.

  ‘Not this time, either, darling, not this time either,’ she whispered, knowing that there would be no consolation. She took a painkiller and, shivering, got back into bed.

  6

  The cemetery was full of neighbours who had taken time off work and even closed their shops in order to attend the burial. The rumour that she might not be the first girl to die at the hands of this criminal was beginning to spread. During the funeral, which had taken place barely two hours earlier in the parish Church of Santiago, the priest had implied in his sermon that evil appeared to be stalking the valley and during the prayer for the dead, around the open grave in the ground, the atmosphere was tense and ominous, as if an inescapable curse was hovering over the heads of those present. The silence was broken only by Ainhoa’s brother who, supported by his cousins, doubled over with a harsh, convulsive groan that came from deep inside him and reduced him to heartrending sobs. His parents, standing nearby, seemed not to hear him. Holding one another for support, they wept silently without taking their eyes off the coffin that contained their daughter’s body. Jonan recorded the entire service from his position leaning on top of an old vault. Standing behind the parents, Montes observed the group just opposite them, closest to the grave. Deputy Inspector Zabalza had stationed himself near the gate in a camouflaged car and was taking photos of all the people who entered the cemetery, including those heading towards different graves and those who didn’t actually go in but stayed outside, talking in huddles or standing by the railings.

  Amaia saw her Aunt Engrasi, who was holding Ros’s arm, and wondered where her layabout of a brother-in-law could be; almost certainly still in bed. Freddy had never made an effort in his life; his father had died when he was only five and he had grown up anaesthetised by the fuss made of him by a hysterical mother and a multitude of aging aunts who had spoiled him rotten. He hadn’t even turned up for dinner last Christmas Eve. Ros hadn’t eaten a bite while she watched the door with an ashen face and dialled Freddy’s number time and again, only to be told it was unavailable. Although they had all tried to pretend it didn’t matter, Flora had been unable to resist the opportunity to say exactly what she thought of that loser and they had ended up arguing. Ros had left halfway through dinner and Flora and a resigned Víctor had followed suit as soon as dessert was over. Since then things between them had been even worse than normal. Amaia waited until everyone had offered the parents their condolences before approaching the grave, which the cemetery workers had just closed with a grey marble cover which did not yet feature Ainhoa’s name.

  ‘Amaia.’

  She saw Víctor coming over, making his way through the parishioners who were flooding out of the cemetery after Ainhoa’s parents. She had known Víctor since she was a young girl, when he had first started going out with Flora. Although it was now two years since they had separated, to Amaia, Víctor was still her brother-in-law.

  ‘Hello, Amaia, how are you?’

  ‘Fine, given the circumstances.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ he said, casting a troubled glance at the tomb. ‘Even so, I’m very happy to see you.’

  ‘Likewise. Did you come by yourself?’

  ‘No, with your sister.’

  ‘I didn’t see you.’

  ‘We saw you …’

  ‘Where is Flora?’

  ‘You know her … she’s already gone, but don’t take it the wrong way.’

  Aunt Engrasi and Ros were coming up the gravel path; Víctor exchanged a friendly greeting with them and left the cemetery, turning to wave when he reached the gate.

  ‘I don’t know how he puts up with her,’ remarked Ros.

  ‘He doesn’t anymore, had you forgotten that they’ve separated?’ said Amaia.

  ‘What do you mean he doesn’t anymore? She’s like a dog in the manger. She neither eats nor lets others eat.’

  ‘That does describe Flora rather well,’ agreed Aunt Engrasi.

  ‘I’ve got to go and see her, I’ll let you know how it goes later.’

  Founded in 1865, Mantecadas Salazar was one of the oldest confectionery and patisserie companies in Navarra. Six generations of Salazars had run it, although it had been Flora, taking over from their parents, who had known how to make the necessary decisions to keep such a company going in the current market. The original sign engraved on the marble façade had been retained, but the wide wooden shutters had been replaced by huge frosted windows that prevented people seeing in. Making her way round the building, Amaia arrived at the door to the warehouse, which was always open when there was work underway. She gave it a rap with her knuckles. As she went in she saw a group of workers chatting while they made up boxes of pastries. She recognised some of them, greeted them, and made her way to Flora’s office, breathing in the sweet smell of sugared flour and melted butter that had been a part of her for so many years, as integral to her sense of identity as her DNA. Her parents had been the forerunners of the process of change, but Flora had steered it to completion with a steady hand. Amaia saw that she had replaced all the ovens except the wood-fired one and that the old marble counters on which her father had kneaded dough were now made of stainless steel. Some of the dispensers had been upgraded and the different areas were separated by sparklingly clean windows; if it hadn’t been for the powerful aroma of syrup it would have reminded her more of an operating theatre than a pastry workshop. In contrast, Flora’s office was a big surprise. The oak desk that dominated one corner was the only piece of furniture that looked at all businesslike. A large rustic kitchen with a fireplace and a wooden worktop acted as the reception; a floral sofa and a modern espresso machine completed the ensemble, which was really very welcoming.

  Flora was making coffee and arranging the cups and saucers as if she was receiving guests.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ she said without turning round when she heard the door.

  ‘This must be the only place you wait, you almost ran out of the cemetery.’

  ‘That’s because I, Amaia, don’t have time to waste, I have to work.’

  ‘So do the rest of us, Flora.’

  ‘No, not like the rest of you, sister dear, some more than others. I’m sure that Ros, or rather Rosaura, as she now wants to be called, has time to spare.’

  ‘I don’t know what makes you say that,’ said Amaia, somewhere between surprised and upset by her older sister’s dismissive tone.

  ‘Well, I say it because our darling sister’s got problems with that loser Freddy again. She’s been spending hours on the phone recently trying to find out where he is, that is when she’s not wondering around with puffy red eyes from crying over that shit. I tried to tell her, but she just wouldn’t listen … Until one day, two weeks ago, she
stopped coming to work under the pretext of being ill and I can tell you exactly what was wrong with her … she was in a temper with a capital“t” thanks to that PlayStation champion. He’s no good for anything except spending the money Ros earns, playing his stupid computer games and getting off his head on dope. To get back to the point, a week ago Queen Rosaura deigned to turn up here and hand in her resignation. What do you think of that?! She says she can no longer work with me and she wants her final pay slip.’

  Amaia looked at her in silence.

  ‘That’s what your darling sister did; instead of getting rid of that loser she comes to me and asks for her final pay slip. Her final pay slip,’ she repeated indignantly. ‘She ought to reimburse me for having to put up with all her shit and her complaints, her martyr’s face. She looks like she’s got the weight of the world on her shoulders but she’s the one who chose to carry it in the first place. And do you know what I think? So much the better. I’ve got twenty other employees and I don’t have to hear sob stories from any of them, let’s see whether they let her get away with half of what I have in her next job.’

  ‘Flora, you’re her sister …’ murmured Amaia, sipping her coffee.

  ‘Yes, and in exchange for that honour I have to put up with all her ups and downs.’

  ‘No, Flora, but one would hope that as her sister you might be a bit more understanding.’

  ‘Do you think I haven’t been understanding?’ Flora asked, raising her head as she took offence.

  ‘Perhaps a little patience wouldn’t have done any harm.’

  ‘Well, that’s the final straw.’ She huffed as she tidied the items on her desk.

  Amaia tried again. ‘When she hadn’t been to work for a couple weeks, did you go and see her? Did you ask her what was wrong?’

  ‘No, no I didn’t. What about you? Did you go and ask her what was wrong?’

  ‘I didn’t know anything was wrong, Flora, otherwise you can be sure I would have gone to see her. But answer me.’

  ‘No, I didn’t ask her because I already knew what the answer would be: that that shit has made her into a complete mess. Why ask when we all know the answer?’

  ‘We also knew the reason when it was you who was suffering, but both Ros and I stood by you.’

  ‘And now you can see that I didn’t need you, I dealt with it how you should deal with these things, by cutting my losses.’

  ‘Not everyone is as strong as you are, Flora.’

  ‘Well you ought to be. The women of this family always have been,’ she said, tearing a piece of paper loudly and tossing it at the wastepaper basket.

  The resentment in Flora’s words made it clear she saw her sisters as weaklings, handicapped and half-baked, and looked down on them with an unsympathetic mixture of contempt and disdain.

  While Flora washed the coffee cups, Amaia looked at some blown-up photos that were sticking out of an envelope on the table. They showed her older sister dressed as a pastry chef and smiling as she kneaded some sticky dough.

  ‘Are they for your new book?’

  ‘Yes,’ her tone softened slightly, ‘they’re the ideas for the front cover. They only sent them to me today.’

  ‘I understand the last one was a success.’

  ‘Yes, it worked out quite well, so the publishers want to continue along the same lines. You know, basic pastries that any housewife can make.’

  ‘Don’t play it down, Flora, almost all my friends in Pamplona have a copy and they love it.’

  ‘If someone had told Amatxi that I’d become famous for teaching people how to make madeleines and doughnuts she wouldn’t have believed it.’

  ‘Times have changed … home-baking’s become exotic and trendy.’

  It was easy to see that Flora felt comfortable with the praise and the taste of her success; she smiled, looking at her sister as if weighing up whether or not to share a secret with her.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone, but they’ve suggested I do a baking programme for TV.’

  ‘Oh my God, Flora! That’s amazing, congratulations,’ said Amaia.

  ‘I haven’t signed anything yet, but they’ve sent the contract to my lawyer so that he can go over it and as soon as he gives me the go-ahead … I only hope all this fuss about the murders doesn’t affect it. It’s been a month since that girl was killed by her boyfriend, and now there’s that other girl.’

  ‘I don’t know quite how they would affect you and your work; the crimes have nothing at all to do with you.’

  ‘No, not in terms of doing my work, but I think my image and that of Mantecadas Salazar are inextricably linked with that of Elizondo, and you have to admit that a thing like this affects the town’s image, tourism and sales.’

  ‘Well, what a surprise, Flora, here you are making much of your great humanity as usual. Don’t forget we’ve got two murdered girls and two destroyed families, I don’t think it’s quite the right moment to think about how this might affect tourism.’

  ‘Someone has to think of it,’ Flora declared.

  ‘That’s what I’m here for, Flora, to catch the person or people who’ve done this and help Elizondo return to peace.’

  Flora stared at her sceptically.

  ‘If you’re the best the Policía Foral can send us, God help us.’

  Unlike Rosaura, Amaia wasn’t affected in the slightest by Flora’s attempts to upset her.

  She supposed that the three years spent surrounded by men at the police academy and the fact that she was the first woman to reach the rank of inspector in the homicide division meant that she’d experienced enough jokes and teasing along the way to leave her with a steely inner strength and cast-iron composure. She would almost have found Flora’s spiteful comments funny if not for the fact that she was her sister and Amaia was saddened to be reminded of how callous Flora was. Every gesture, every word that came out of her mouth was designed to wound and cause as much damage as possible. Amaia noticed the way Flora pursed her mouth slightly in a grimace of annoyance when she responded calmly to her provocations and the mocking tone her big sister used, as if she was talking to a stubborn, ill-mannered child. She was just about to answer when her phone rang.

  ‘We’ve got the photos and the video from the cemetery, chief,’ said Jonan. Amaia looked at her watch.

  ‘Great. I’ll come now; I’ll be there in about ten minutes. Gather everyone together.’ She hung up and, smiling, said to Flora, ‘I have to go. As you can see, in spite of my ineptitude, duty calls me too.’

  Flora looked as if she were about to say something, but in the end she thought better of it and remained silent.

  ‘Why the long face?’ smiled Amaia. ‘Don’t be sad, I’ll be back tomorrow, I want to ask you about something, and have another of your delicious coffees.’

  As she was leaving the workshop she almost collided with her brother-in-law, who was on his way in with an enormous bunch of red roses.

  ‘Thank you, Víctor, but you shouldn’t have gone to such trouble,’ exclaimed Amaia with a smile.

  ‘Hello, Amaia, they’re for Flora. It’s our wedding anniversary today, twenty-two years,’ he said, smiling back at her. Amaia remained silent. Flora and Víctor had been separated for two years now and, although they hadn’t divorced, Flora had stayed in their shared home and he had moved into the magnificent traditional farmhouse on the farm his family owned on the outskirts of town. Víctor noticed her discomfort.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, but Flora and I are still married, on my part because I still love her and on her part because she says she doesn’t believe in divorce. I don’t mind what the reason is, but I’ve still got a hope, don’t you think?’

  Amaia put her hand over his hand that was holding the bunch of flowers.

  ‘Of course you have, Víctor, good luck.’

  He smiled.

  ‘When it comes to your sister I always need luck.’

  7

  Like the police stations in Pamplona and Tudela, the new Pol
icía Foral station in Elizondo was of a modern design, moving away from the typical architecture of the town and the rest of the valley. It was a truly unique building, characterised by its walls of whitish stone and huge, thick plate-glass windows spread over two rectangular storeys, the second of which overhung the first forming a kind of inverted staircase effect and giving it a certain resemblance to an aircraft carrier. A couple of patrol cars parked under the overhang, the surveillance cameras and the mirrored glass all underlined the building’s purpose. During Amaia’s brief visit to the Elizondo commissioner’s office he had reiterated the same expressions of support and assurances of collaboration that he had already given her the day before, along with the promise of providing every assistance she might need. The high definition photographs didn’t reveal anything they might have missed at the cemetery. The funeral had been well-attended, as they usually were in such circumstances. Entire families, plenty of people Ainhoa had known since her childhood, among whom Amaia recognised a few of her own classmates and old friends from school. All the staff and the head teacher were there, a few local councillors and Ainhoa’s friends and classmates, forming a chorus of tearful girls with their arms around one another. And that was all; no delinquents, no paedophiles, nobody with an outstanding arrest warrant, no solitary man wrapped in a black raincoat, wolfishly licking his lips as the sun glinted off his canines. She tossed the mountain of photos onto the table with a look of disgust thinking how often this job could be so frustrating and disheartening.

  ‘Carla Huarte’s parents didn’t attend the funeral or the burial, and they weren’t at the reception at Ainhoa’s home afterwards,’ remarked Montes.

  ‘Is that strange?’ asked Iriarte.

  ‘Well, it’s unexpected; the families knew each other, if only by sight, and keeping in mind that and the circumstances of the girls’ deaths …’

  ‘Perhaps it was to avoid fuelling any gossip; let’s not forget that they’ve believed Miguel Ángel to be their daughter’s killer all this time … It must be hard to accept that we don’t have the killer and, furthermore, that he’s going to be released from prison.’