‘And if that doesn’t work?’
‘A reproductive specialist,’ said James, looking pointedly at Amaia.
‘And if that doesn’t work?’ asked Engrasi.
‘I suppose that then it would be left to hope …’ Amaia gave in.
Her aunt nodded, smiling.
‘I’d like to visit that place,’ said James. ‘Is it near here? Could you take me?’
‘Of course,’ replied Ros, ‘we can go tomorrow if it’s not raining. Do you fancy it, Aunt Engrasi?’
‘You go, but you’ll have to forgive me, I’m not up to excursions like that anymore. The place is near where that girl, Carla, was found. You ought to see it, too, Amaia, even if only for the sake of curiosity.’
James looked at her, waiting for her response.
‘Tomorrow is Anne Arbizu’s funeral, and I also have to go and see Flora and …’ she remembered something, pulled out her mobile and dialled Montes’s number. The call was picked up by the voicemail service, which invited her to leave a message.
‘Montes, give me a call. It’s Salazar. Amaia,’ she added, remembering that her sisters were also Salazars.
Ros excused herself and went towards the stairs, and James kissed Aunt Engrasi and caught his wife around her waist.
‘It’s best we go to bed.’
Her aunt didn’t move.
‘Wait for her upstairs, James. Amaia, stay, please, I want to tell you something. Switch that light off, it’s blinding me, put a couple of shots of orujo in the coffee and sit here, opposite me. And don’t interrupt.’ She looked her niece in the eyes and began to speak. ‘The week I turned sixteen I saw a basajaun in the forest. I used to go and collect wood every day until nightfall. Times were hard, I had to collect enough for the ovens in the workshop, the fireplace at home and to sell. Sometimes I had to carry so much that, frustrated by my lack of strength, I would throw down my load at the side of the path and lie down on the floor and cry out of sheer exhaustion. That day, after crying for a while, I lay silently among the bundles of wood, asking myself how I would manage to carry them down to the town. Then I heard it. At first I thought it was a deer, which are very stealthy, unlike wild boars, which always make a hell of a racket. I raised my head above the heap of wood and I saw it. At first I thought it was a man, the tallest man I’d seen in my life. His torso was naked and very hairy, and he had a very long mane of hair that covered his whole back. He was scraping away at some bark with a small stick, collecting the bits with long, dexterous fingers and putting them into his mouth as though they were a real delicacy. He suddenly turned and smelled the air like a rabbit might. I was absolutely certain he knew I was nearby. With time, when I thought about it calmly, I reached the conclusion that he knew my odour very well because I spent most of my life in the woods. I would go up onto the mountain in the mornings as soon as the fog cleared and work until midday. I’d stop for a while with my sisters to eat the hot food our mother would bring us for lunch, then she and my older sister would take away the bundles we’d gathered during the morning on a little donkey we used to own and I would continue working for a couple more hours, or until darkness began to fall. My odour must have formed part of that area of the forest as much as that of a little animal would; we even had a pretty established spot where we’d go to the toilet when we needed to, to avoid leaving shit all over the forest while we were hunting for wood. So the basajaun smelled the air, recognised me and went about his business as if it were nothing, although he did turn round a couple of times with an uncomfortable look on his face, as if he expected to find someone standing behind him. He stayed there a few minutes longer and then went slowly away, stopping every so often to scrape little bits of bark and lichen from the trees. I stood and loaded myself up with the bundles with a strength that came from who knows where, although I know it wasn’t panic; I was shocked, yes, but more like someone who’s witnessed a miracle and can’t believe it was them that was chosen, than a little girl who’s seen a bogeyman in the woods. I only know that when I arrived home I was as pale as if I’d dipped my face in a plate of flour and my hair was plastered to my head with a cold, clammy sweat that gave your grandmother such a shock she put me to bed and made me drink infusions of pasmo belarra until my throat was as dry as the woven sole of an esparto. I didn’t say anything at home, I think because I knew that what I had seen was too different for my parents to acknowledge it, although I was sure what it was. I knew it was a basajaun: like all the children in the Baztan Valley, I’d heard the stories about basajauns and other creatures, some of them magical, who’d lived in the forest since long before men built Elizondo next to the church hundreds of times. The next Sunday, during confession, I told the priest we had then, Don Serafín was his name, a savage Jesuit who was a force to be reckoned with. And I can assure you there wasn’t much that was angelic about him: he called me a liar, a trickster, and an idiot, and if that weren’t enough, he came out of the confessional and dealt me a blow with his fist that brought tears to my eyes. Afterwards he read me a sermon about the dangers of making up such stories, forbade me from mentioning the subject, even to my family, and gave me a penance of our fathers, Hail Marys, Credos, and Confiteors that took me weeks to finish, so I never told anyone about it ever again. Whenever I went to the forest to gather wood I would make so much noise that I’d frighten off any creature within a two kilometre radius, I would sing the Te Deum in Latin so loudly I was almost shouting and I was always hoarse when I got home. I never saw the basajaun again, although there were many times when I thought I saw signs that he had been in a place; of course, they could have been left by deer or bears, which were still around then, but I always knew that my singing was a sign to him, that just hearing it would make him move away, that he was aware of my presence, that he accepted it, and that he avoided it as I avoided his.
Amaia looked at Aunt Engrasi’s face. When she’d finished speaking she continued to look at her niece with those eyes that were once as intensely blue as Amaia’s, and which now seemed washed out like faded sapphires, although the alert, wise and lively mind behind them still shone through.
‘Aunt Engrasi,’ she began, ‘it’s not that I don’t believe that that was exactly how you experienced it and how you remember it, and I don’t mean to be rude, but you’ve always had a lively imagination. Don’t get me wrong, you know I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that … but you have to understand that I’m in the middle of a murder investigation and I have to look at it as an investigator …’
‘You have excellent judgement,’ observed Engrasi.
‘Have you considered the possibility,’ Amaia continued, ‘that what you saw wasn’t a basajaun but something else instead? You have to bear in mind that girls of your generation weren’t influenced by television and the internet like they are nowadays, and yet, around here, and in rural areas in general, there are loads of legends like this. Look at it from my point of view. A pre-pubescent adolescent, alone all day in the woods, exhausted and half dehydrated from physical exertion, crying until she’s worn out, perhaps even until she fell asleep. You seem like the ideal candidate for an apparition of the Virgin Mary in mediaeval times or alien abduction in the Seventies.’
‘I didn’t dream it. I was as awake then as I am now and I saw it as plainly as I see you. But don’t worry, I was expecting this reaction when I decided to tell you about it.’
Amaia looked at her tenderly and Engrasi smiled at her in turn, showing the perfect array of her false teeth, which for some unknown reason always made the inspector smile and experience an intense wave of love for her. Still smiling, her aunt pointed at her with a bony white finger, covered in rings.
‘Yes, madam, I knew, and that’s why, because I know how that little head of yours works, I’ve got another witness for you.’
Her niece looked at her suspiciously.
‘Who, one of your poker cronies from the merry gang?’
‘Be quiet, unbeliever, and listen. Six years
ago, on a winter’s afternoon after Mass, I found Carlos Vallejo waiting for me on the doorstep.’
‘Carlos Vallejo, my old school teacher?’ Although it had been years since she had last seen him, the image of Don Carlos Vallejo that came to mind was as fresh as if she’d just left his classroom. His perfectly cut coloured suits, his maths textbook under his arm, his ever-neat moustache, his thick, greying hair which he slicked back with brilliantine and his strong smell of aftershave lotion.
‘Yes, young lady,’ smiled Engrasi as she noticed her interest. ‘He was wearing hunting clothes that were completely soaking wet and covered in mud, and he even still had his rifle with him in its leather case. I was particularly surprised because, as I’ve said, it was winter and night was falling early, it wasn’t the right time of day to go hunting, his clothes were soaking even though it hadn’t rained for the last few days and, most of all, because of his face, which was as pale as a wet sheet. I knew that he was very fond of hunting; he’d sometimes driven past me in his car on his way back from the mountain in the middle of the morning, but he never wore hunting clothes around town … In fact, you know what they’ve always called him.’
‘The Dandy,’ murmured Amaia.
‘Yes, indeed, the Dandy … Well, the Dandy had mud on his trousers and boots and when I gave him a cup of camomile tea I saw that his hands were covered with scratches and his nails were blacker than a coal miner’s. I waited until he was ready to speak, since that’s normally best.’
Amaia nodded.
‘He was silent for a long time with his gaze lost in the bottom of the cup; then he took a long sip, looked me in the eyes and told me with all the elegance and good manners on which he has always prided himself, “Engrasi, I hope you can forgive me for turning up at your house in this state.” I knew he wanted to say “your consultation room”. I nodded slowly waiting for him to continue.
‘“I suppose you’ll be surprised by my coming to you, but I didn’t know where else to go, and I thought that you might, perhaps …” I encouraged him to go on until he told me, “This morning in the woods I saw a basajaun.”’
17
The whiteboard at the police station was covered with a Venn diagram the centre of which was occupied by the pictures of the three girls. Jonan was going through the forensic reports over and over again while Amaia took small sips from the cup she held in her hands, which were wrapped around it for warmth. She looked at the whiteboard in an almost hypnotic trance, as if by studying those faces and words she might gain insight, some hint from the souls that were missing from the girls’ dead eyes.
‘Inspector Salazar,’ Iriarte interrupted her. He smiled when he saw her jump and Amaia thought what a nice guy he was, with his office adorned with calendars with pictures of the Virgin and a photograph of his wife and a couple of blond little boys who smiled openly at the camera and must have inherited their mother’s hair, since Iriarte’s was sparse, black and very fine.
‘We’ve got the toxicology report on Anne. Cannabis and alcohol.’
Amaia read through the notes aloud.
‘Fifteen years of age, a member of the Vincentian Marian Youth Movement, school Gifted and Talented programme. Basketball team and chess club, library card. Her room contained: a pink bedspread, Winnie the Pooh soft toys, gossip magazines and Danielle Steel novels. Something doesn’t seem quite right to me,’ she said, looking up at Iriarte.
‘I thought the same, so this morning we spoke to a couple of Anne’s friends and they told us a very different story. Anne lived a double life to keep her parents blissfully ignorant. According to her friends, she smoked joints, drank and even did stronger stuff sometimes. She spent hours in online chat rooms and would publish risqué photos of herself on the net; according to them, she loved to show off her tits on the webcam; I’m quoting here, “She was a slut disguised as a little angel, she even had an affair with a married man.”’
‘A married man? Who? This could be very important. What else did they say?’
‘They don’t know who it was, or they don’t want to say. It looks like the thing had been going on for a few months, but she was going to leave him; she told them the guy was getting obsessive and that it wasn’t any fun anymore,’ he said, reading from his notes.
‘For the love of God, Iriarte, I think we’ve struck gold here: she wanted to put an end to things and he killed her, perhaps he had some kind of relationship with Carla and Ainhoa too …’
‘He might have done with Carla. Ainhoa was a virgin, she was only twelve.’
‘Perhaps he tried, and when he was rejected … Alright, I know it’s a bit far-fetched, but we can look into this. Do we at least know whether he’s from Elizondo?’
‘The girls say he almost certainly is, although he might also be from a neighbouring town or village.’
‘We need to find this guy who likes young girls. Get a warrant for the girl’s computer and any diaries or notes that might be in her house, search her school locker too, call the girls’ parents and ask permission to speak to all her friends who are still minors, visit them at home … And I want everyone in plain clothes, the last thing I want is to make the people who ought to be collaborating feel uncomfortable. And Inspector,’ she said, looking at Iriarte, ‘not a word about this to Anne’s parents for now, it’s obvious they knew nothing about their daughter’s double life.’
She looked at her watch.
‘I want everyone at the church or the cemetery in three hours’ time, exactly the same operation we carried out for Ainhoa’s funeral. As soon as you’ve finished there I want you all to come back to the station, Jonan’s got an excellent digital photography programme with really high resolution and as soon as the images are ready I want you here to pool our resources. Jonan, look and see if you can get anything from Anne’s computer; really dig, I don’t care if it takes you all night.’
‘Yes, chief, whatever it takes.’
‘Oh, and how’s it going with the Ghostbusters from Huerta?’
‘I’ve got a meeting with them at six this evening when they come back down from the mountain. I hope they’ll be able to tell me something then.’
‘I hope so, too. Are you meeting them here?’
‘Well, I suggested it, but the Russian one seems to be allergic to police stations or something like that. She tried to explain it to me on the phone but I didn’t understand half of what she was saying. We’re meeting at the hotel where they’re staying. The Baztán,’ he said, checking his notes.
‘I know the one you mean, I’ll try and drop by,’ said Amaia, putting a memo on her smartphone.
Zabalza burst into the room holding a sheaf of fax paper which he placed on the table.
‘They’re calling from Pamplona, Inspector. Several media outlets want to cover the funeral and burial and they’re advising us to make a statement.’
‘That’s Montes’s job,’ she said, looking round. ‘Does anyone know where the hell he is?’
‘He called this morning to say he wasn’t feeling well and that he’d meet us at the cemetery.’
Amaia snorted.
‘Well, I suppose it’s possible … Whoever sees him first, please tell him to go to Inspector Iriarte’s office as a matter of urgency. Zabalza, arrange a meeting for me with Anne’s parents please, around four in the afternoon if possible.’
It had started raining an hour earlier, and the sweet scent of the flowers together with the mourners’ damp jackets made the air inside the church difficult to breathe. The sermon was an echo of the previous ones and Amaia paid it scant attention. Perhaps there were more people there; the morbid, the curious and the journalists, whom the priest had allowed to observe the service on condition that they did not record inside the church. Once again there were the same scenes of grief, the same cries of distress … And something new, a special atmosphere of horror that seemed to veil the faces of all those attending the funeral, subtle but omnipresent. In addition to the family there was a large group of young
boys and girls in the first few rows, undoubtedly Anne’s classmates from school. Some of the girls were hugging one another and crying silently; their faces reflected the lack of energy she had also noticed in Ainhoa’s friends. They had lost the natural brilliance of youth and the air of constant playfulness born of the confidence that they will never die. Death should have seemed a thousand light years away for them, part of an unimaginable old age, but it had taken on a real and palpable presence. They were afraid, struck by the kind of fear that leaves you motionless and wishing you were invisible so death can’t find you, and left ashen-faced and old before their time by its proximity. All eyes were on Anne’s coffin, where it stood in front of the altar, reflecting the light of the tall candles burning either side of it, and surrounded by the white flowers of a virgin bride.
‘Let’s go,’ whispered Amaia to Jonan. ‘I want to get to the cemetery before people start arriving.’
The cemetery in Elizondo was located on a slight slope in the Anzanborda neighbourhood, although to call the three large houses visible from the cemetery gate a neighbourhood was a bit excessive. The slope, which was barely noticeable at the entrance, became more pronounced as you moved further in among the graves. Amaia guessed it had been planned like that to avoid the frequent rains pooling inside the graves. Many of the tombs were above ground and were closed by deep-set doorways, although in the lower part of the cemetery there were others that were more humble and traditional, marked by round stone slabs anchored in the earth. These tombs brought to mind other elevated tombs: the ones she had seen in New Orleans two years earlier. That was when she had been taking part in a police exchange at the FBI’s academy in Quantico, Virginia, which included a seminar on criminal profiling. The conference had finished with a trip to New Orleans, where part of the course on identification and concealment in the field was delivered since there had been a lot of crimes that had been covered up by Hurricane Katrina and there were many instances of remains and evidence continuing to appear years later. Amaia had been surprised that the city still showed signs of the consequences of the disaster so long afterwards and yet still retained a decadent and gloomy majesty redolent of the withered luxury associated with death in some cultures. One of the officers present, Special Agent Dupree, encouraged her to follow the procession of one of those magnificent funerals at which a jazz band accompanies the funeral party to the Saint Louis cemetery.
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