The Invisible Guardian

by Redondo, Dolores

  20

  In the old days Calle Braulio Iriarte used to be called Calle del Sol because all the houses faced the sun and the sun warmed and lit the street until it set. With time, its name had changed in tribute to a local benefactor who, after going to the Americas and making his fortune by founding the Corona beer empire, returned to the town and financed the construction of a pelota court, a charitable home and various other important works. But Amaia still thought that Calle del Sol was more fitting, basic and reminiscent of times past, when man lived in communion with nature, a time which had been wiped out by the powerful worship of Mammon. Amaia was grateful for the gentle rays that warmed her face and shoulders in spite of the February cold and the other much more intense cold that was reappearing inside her again like a badly buried corpse, a cold that had returned with Iriarte’s words. Her head would not stop spinning with all the information inside it. She had bombarded the police officer with questions in a desperate attempt to get at the answer, while he prudently refused to air any new theories. In the end she had sunk into a resentful silence, limiting herself to walking at his side. On arriving at the house they saw Ros’s red Ford Fiesta pulling up outside.

  ‘Hi, Amaia,’ Ros greeted her, happy to see her.

  ‘Come inside, Ros, I need to talk to you.’ Ros’s smile dis-appeared.

  ‘Don’t scare me like that,’ she said as she opened the door and they went into the sitting room. Amaia stared at her.

  ‘Sit down, Ros,’ said Amaia, guiding her to a chair.

  Ros sat down at the table in the same seat she chose whenever they read the cards.

  ‘Where’s Aunt Engrasi?’ asked Amaia, suddenly aware that she hadn’t seen her.

  ‘I don’t know, oh God, has something happened to her? I thought she must have gone shopping at Eroski with James …’

  ‘No, she’s fine … Ros, it’s Freddy.’

  ‘Freddy?’ Ros repeated, as if she’d never heard the name before.

  ‘He tried to kill himself by hanging himself in the stairwell at your house.’

  Ros remained calm, perhaps too calm.

  ‘Is he dead?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘No, fortunately one of his friends arrived at the house just then and … Do you know if there was a key hidden near the front door?’

  ‘Yes, we fought about it several times. I didn’t like the fact that his friends could come into the house whenever they liked.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Ros,’ murmured Amaia.

  Ros bit her lower lip and remained silent, looking at a point in the middle distance somewhere to the right of her sister.

  ‘Ros, I’m heading to Pamplona right now, they told us that he’s in Navarra Hospital.’ She omitted mentioning Freddy’s potential connection with the case. ‘Leave a note for Aunt Engrasi, and we’ll call James on our way.’

  Ros didn’t move from her seat.

  ‘Amaia, I’m not going.’

  Amaia, who had already taken several steps toward the door, stopped.

  ‘What do you mean you’re not going? Why?’ she asked, genuinely surprised.

  ‘I don’t want to go, I can’t go. I don’t feel strong enough.’

  Amaia studied her for a few seconds and then nodded.

  ‘It’s alright, I understand,’ she lied. ‘I’ll call you and tell you what we find out.’

  ‘Yes, it would be better to call me.’

  When she got into the car she sat and looked at Iriarte, who was already at the wheel.

  ‘I really don’t understand anything at all,’ she said. He shook his head, unable to help her.

  The hospital welcomed them with its characteristic smell of disinfectant and a freezing draught that blew through the entrance hall.

  ‘They’re doing building work on the bit at the back, where the old A&E entrance was, that’s where the draught’s from,’ explained Iriarte.

  ‘Where’s the ICU?’

  ‘This way,’ he pointed, ‘near the operating theatres. I’ll take you, I’ve been here several times.’

  They went along corridor after corridor following a green line painted on the floor, until Deputy Inspector Zabalza appeared out of a small room which contained nothing more than a low table and half a dozen chairs that were slightly more comfortable than the ones arranged in lines in the corridors.

  ‘Come in, we can talk in here, there’s nobody else here.’

  Zabalza went out into the corridor, signalled to the nurse in charge and finally went back in.

  ‘They’re going to let the doctor know you’re here, he’ll come straight away.’

  He made as if to sit down, but on seeing that Amaia was still standing and looking at him impatiently, he took out his notebook and started to read his notes.

  ‘Today at around 1pm Alfredo met a friend, the one who found him later and dialled 112. The friend says that he didn’t look at all well, as if he was very ill or in a lot of pain.’

  Amaia thought how dejected and unwell he had looked when she saw him at the cemetery that morning. Zabalza continued: ‘He says that he was shocked by his appearance, that he spoke to him but Freddy barely murmured a few incomprehensible words and left. His friend was worried, so he went by his house after lunch. He knocked, and when Freddy didn’t respond he looked through the window and saw that the television was on. He kept knocking and, since there was no response, he went into the house using the key that, according to him, is kept under a flowerpot by the front door so that Freddy’s friends can visit whenever they like. He says that all his friends know about the key. He went in, he found Freddy hanging by his neck in the stairwell, and, in spite of the terrible shock it gave him, he got a knife from the kitchen, went upstairs and cut the rope. According to the friend, Freddy was still kicking. He dialled 112 and went in the ambulance with him. He’s in a room on the main ward, if you want to speak to him.’

  Amaia sighed.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, the friend says that he hadn’t been in good shape for a few days; it might not be this, but he says that his wife …’ he looked at Amaia awkwardly, ‘that your sister had left him.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ she confirmed.

  ‘Well, that might be the reason. He left a note.’

  Zabalza showed them an evidence bag with a dirty scrap of paper inside it; it was crumpled and damp.

  ‘It’s crumpled because he was clutching it in his hand. They took it off him in the ambulance. And I suppose the dampness must be from his snot and tears, but you can read it even so, “I love you, Anne, I’ll always love you.”’

  Amaia looked at Iriarte and then at Zabalza again.

  ‘Zabalza, my sister’s name is Ros, Rosaura. And I think we all know who Anne is.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Zabalza, ‘I’m sorry, I …’

  ‘Bring the friend here,’ said Iriarte, shooting him a reproachful look. When Zabalza had left the room, Iriarte turned to Amaia.

  ‘Forgive him, he didn’t know; they told me on the telephone. The note establishes a connection between Freddy and Anne, and that’s the reason the Commissioner wants to see us.’

  Zabalza returned a few minutes later, accompanied by a thin, dark, bony man in his early thirties. His slightly over-large jeans and black fleece jacket made him look even thinner, as if he were lost inside his clothes. In spite of the tough time he must have had, there was a glow of satisfaction on his face, perhaps the result of all the attention he was receiving.

  ‘This is Ángel Ostolaza. These are Inspectors Salazar and Iriarte.’

  Amaia shook hands with him, noting a slight tremor in his hand. He seemed ready to recount the whole experience complete with every last detail, so he was a bit disappointed when the inspector moved the questioning into an area that he hadn’t rehearsed.

  ‘Would you say you’re a close friend of Freddy’s?’

  ‘We’ve known each other since we were children, we went to primary school and then we were at secondary school together unt
il he left, although we’ve always been part of the same gang.’

  ‘But are you close enough to tell each other things that are, shall we say, very private?’

  ‘Well … I don’t know, yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Did you know Anne Arbizu?’

  ‘Everyone knew her, Elizondo is a very small town,’ he said, as if that explained everything.

  ‘And Anne didn’t go unnoticed, if you know what I mean?’ he added, smiling at the two men, perhaps looking for a masculine camaraderie he failed to find.

  ‘Did Freddy have any kind of relationship with Anne Arbizu?’

  There was no doubt that he realised that his response would mark a distinct change in the interview’s direction.

  ‘No. What are you saying? Of course not,’ he replied indignantly.

  ‘Did he ever make any comment to you that suggested he found her attractive or desirable?’

  ‘What are you trying to suggest? She was a young girl, a very attractive young girl … Alright, perhaps we made the odd comment on a couple of occasions; you know what guys are like.’ He turned to Zabalza and Iriarte for support for a second time but they ignored him once again. ‘Perhaps we said she was getting very pretty, and that she was well developed for her age, but I’m not even sure that comment came from Freddy, it’s equally likely I said it and the others agreed.’

  ‘Who? Who said it?’ asked Amaia harshly.

  ‘I don’t know, I swear I don’t know.’

  ‘Alright, we may need your help again. You can go now.’

  He seemed surprised. He looked at his hands and suddenly seemed devastated, as if he didn’t know what to do with them; in the end he opted to bury them deep in his pockets and left the room without another word.

  The doctor was visibly disgusted when he came in. He ran his eye over the group and his disgust seemed to intensify. After a brief introduction, he gave his update, directing his words to Zabalza and Iriarte, completely ignoring Amaia.

  ‘Señor Alfredo Belarrain has suffered serious damage to his spinal cord and a partial fracture of the trachea. Do you understand the seriousness of what I’m telling you?’ He looked from one man to the other and added, ‘In other words, I don’t know how he’s still alive, he nearly succeeded. We’re most concerned by the damage to the spinal cord; we think that, with time and suitable rehabilitation, he will recover some mobility, but I doubt he’ll be able to walk again, do you understand?’

  ‘Do the lesions correspond with a suicide attempt?’ asked Iriarte.

  ‘In my opinion, yes, they do, the lesions undoubtedly indicate a self-inflicted hanging. Manual, as it were.’

  ‘Is there any possibility that someone “helped” him?’

  ‘He doesn’t have any defensive wounds or scratches, there are no bruises to indicate that he was pushed or forced into it. He went to the top of the stairs, tied the cord and jumped; the injuries correspond with self-inflicted hanging and there are no marks beneath those left by the rope that suggest that he was strangled before being hung. Is everything clear? In that case, if you don’t have any further questions, I’ll leave you with the case solved and get back to work.’

  Amaia looked at him closely, her head slightly on one side.

  ‘Wait, Doctor …’ she stepped forward so she was barely a few centimetres from the man and stopped, reading his name on his name badge, ‘Dr … Martínez-Larrea, is that right?’

  He stepped back, visibly intimidated.

  ‘I’m Inspector Salazar, from the regional Policía Foral homicide team, and I’m in charge of an investigation in which Señor Belarrain plays an important role. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, well …’

  ‘It’s vitally important that I should be able to question him.’

  ‘Impossible,’ he stammered, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture. Amaia took another step forward.

  ‘No, I can see that although you’re so bright you’ve managed to do our job for us, you don’t understand a word. This man is the prime suspect in a series of crimes and I need to question him.’

  He stepped back a few paces until he was almost standing in the corridor.

  ‘If he’s a murderer you needn’t worry, he’s not going anywhere: his back and trachea are broken, he’s got a tube in his mouth that goes down into his lungs and he’s in an induced coma; even if I could wake him, which I can’t, he wouldn’t be able to talk, write, or blink his eyes.’ He took another step into the corridor. ‘Come with me, Señora,’ he murmured, ‘I’ll let you see him, but only for two minutes and only through the glass.’

  She nodded and followed him.

  The room where they had put Freddy contained a typical hospital bed, but other than that it could just as easily have been a laboratory, an aeroplane cockpit or the set of a futuristic film. Freddy was barely visible among the tubes, cables and padded bandages that encased his head like a helmet. There was a tube running out of his mouth which seemed unusually large to Amaia and was taped to his cheek with a piece of white surgical tape that emphasised how pale Freddy was in comparison. The only note of colour was a hint of purple around his eyelids, which seemed swollen, and the pearlescent brilliance of a tear that had run down his face to his ear. The image of him from that morning, when she’d seen him among the bushes of the hedge at the entrance to the cemetery kept coming back into Amaia’s thoughts. She spent a few more moments with him, asking herself whether she felt any compassion for him. And decided that she did. She felt compassion for that destroyed life, but not even all the compassion in the world would hinder her in her search for the truth.

  On her way out she saw Freddy’s mother, coming to replace her at the window for two minutes. She was about to greet her when the woman turned on her.

  ‘What are you doing here? The doctor told me that you wanted to question my son … Why don’t you leave us in peace? Don’t you think your sister’s already done enough damage? Your sister broke his heart when she left him and the poor thing couldn’t take it, he lost his mind. And now you want to question him? Question him about what?’

  Amaia went out into the corridor and joined Zabalza and Iriarte, who were waiting for her; the glass door cut off the woman’s shouts.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘The doctor understands perfectly … that absolute imbecile has told Freddy’s mother that he’s a murder suspect.’

  21

  The Commissioner received Amaia and Iriarte in his office and, although he invited them to take a seat, he himself remained standing.

  ‘I’ll cut to the chase,’ he announced. ‘Inspector Salazar, when I made the decision to put you in charge of this case, with the support of the chief of police in Elizondo, I didn’t imagine it would take such a turn. You will be well aware that the fact that one of your family members is implicated in the case puts you in a compromising position, and we can’t risk a mistake of that type putting paid to future judicial action.’

  He stared at Amaia, who remained impassive, although a slight nervous tremor was evident in her knee, as if it were connected to a high tension cable. The Commissioner turned towards the window and remained silent for a minute, looking outside. He sighed loudly and asked, ‘In what way do you think this individual might be involved in the case?’

  It wasn’t clear to which of them he was directing his question. Amaia glanced at Iriarte, who gave her an encouraging look.

  ‘We knew that Anne Arbizu was having a relationship with a married man, but in spite of going through her computer, diaries and phone calls with a fine tooth comb we didn’t know who it was, although we did know that the girl had put an end to the relationship very recently. I think that it was Freddy she was seeing. But he doesn’t fit the profile of the killer we’re looking for at all. Freddy is chaotic, unreliable and disorganised, and I’m sure that whoever killed Anne is the same person who killed the other girls.’

  ‘What do you think, Iriarte?’

  ‘I totally agree with Inspecto
r Salazar.’

  ‘I don’t like this situation, Inspector, but, nonetheless, I will give you forty-eight hours to check out his alibi, if he has one, and rule out Alfredo Belarrain as a suspect; however if this man is in any way implicated in the death of Anne Arbizu, or of any of the other girls, I’ll have to take you off the case and Inspector Iriarte will take command. I’ve already spoken to the Commissioner in Elizondo and he’s in agreement. And now you’ll have to excuse me, I’m in a hurry,’ he opened the door and turned and said, ‘Forty-eight hours’ before leaving.

  Amaia exhaled slowly until her lungs were completely empty.

  ‘Thank you, Iriarte,’ she said, looking him in the eyes.

  He stood up, smiling.

  ‘Let’s go, we’ve got work to do.’

  Night had already fallen when Amaia got back. In Aunt Engrasi’s living room, the girls of the merry poker gang had been replaced by a sort of family wake without a deceased. James, sitting by the fire, seemed more worried than Amaia had ever seen him; her aunt was sitting on the sofa next to Ros, who, strangely, seemed the calmest of the three of them. Jonan Etxaide and Inspector Montes each occupied a chair at the gaming table. Her aunt stood up as soon as she saw her come in.

  ‘How is he, sweetheart?’ she asked, unsure whether to move towards Amaia or stay where she was.

  Amaia pulled up a chair and sat down facing Ros, leaving only a few centimetres between them. She stared at her sister for a few seconds and answered, ‘He’s really bad, his trachea was destroyed by the rope that almost broke his neck. He’s also suffered damage to his spinal cord and won’t walk again.’

  Amaia kept her eyes fixed on Ros while she listened to the gasps of dismay from her aunt and James. Ros blinked quickly and her lips were momentarily compressed in an expression of distaste. And nothing more.

  ‘Ros, why didn’t you go to the hospital? Why didn’t you go to see your husband who tried to kill himself when you broke up with him?’

  Ros stared at her and started shaking her head, but she didn’t say anything.