Читать книгу Offering to the Storm - Долорес Редондо, Dolores Redondo - Страница 15

The leaden skies that had inspired Pamplona’s inhabitants to rename it Mordor, gave way in Baztán to a hazier, more luminous atmosphere – a shimmering mist that dazzled the eye, shrouding the landscape in an eerie light and blurring the horizon. The police station at Elizondo seemed strangely calm compared to yesterday, and getting out of the car, Amaia noticed that this silence had descended like a blanket over the entire valley, so that even from up there she could hear the murmur of the River Txokoto, barely visible behind the old stone edifices. She turned her gaze back to the office: half a dozen photographs of the cot, the white bear, the corpse in the rucksack, the empty coffin from which Valentín Esparza had snatched his daughter’s body, and finally the pathologist’s report, open on top of her desk. San Martín had confirmed asphyxia as the cause of death. The shape and size of the bear’s nose perfectly matched the pressure mark on the baby’s forehead, and the white fibres found in the folds of her mouth came from the toy. The saliva traces on her face and on the toy belonged to the child and to Valentín Esparza; the foul odour coming from the toy was related to a third saliva trace, the source of which hadn’t yet been verified.

‘This proves nothing,’ remarked Montes. ‘The father could have kissed the baby goodbye when he left her at his mother-in-law’s house.’

‘Except that when San Martín confirmed there were saliva traces, I asked the grandmother if she’d bathed the girl before putting her to bed, and she said she had. So, any traces of saliva from the parents would have been washed away,’ explained Amaia.

‘A lawyer could argue that at some point he kissed the toy with which the baby was suffocated, thus transferring his saliva to her skin,’ said Iriarte.

Zabalza arched an eyebrow sceptically.

‘That’s perfectly feasible,’ protested Iriarte, looking to Amaia for support. ‘When my kids were small, they often asked me to kiss their toys.’

‘This girl was only four months old – I doubt she asked her father to kiss the bear. Besides, Esparza isn’t the type to do that kind of thing. And the grandmother claims he stayed in the kitchen that day, drinking a beer, while his wife went up to see to the baby,’ said Amaia, picking out one of the photographs to examine it more closely.

‘I have something,’ said Zabalza. ‘I did a bit of work on the recordings from Esparza’s cell. I couldn’t make out the words, even with the volume on full. But since the image is quite clear, it occurred to me to send it to a friend who works with the deaf and can lip-read. He was absolutely certain that Esparza was saying: “I gave her up her to Inguma, like all the other sacrifices.” I ran a check on Inguma and couldn’t find anyone with that name or nickname.’

‘Inguma? Are you sure?’ Amaia asked, surprised.

‘That’s what my friend said: “Inguma”.’

‘How strange, because the baby’s great-grandmother insisted that Inguma was responsible for the girl’s death. According to her, Inguma is a demon, a creature that enters people’s bedrooms at night, sits on their chests while they’re asleep, and robs them of their breath,’ she said, looking to Jonan for confirmation, who held a combined degree in anthropology and archaeology.

‘That’s right.’ Deputy Inspector Etxaide took over. ‘Inguma is one of the oldest, most sinister creatures in traditional folklore, an evil genie that enters victims’ houses at night and suffocates them. Inguma is thought to be responsible for terrible nightmares and what we now call sleep apnoea, where the sleeper stops breathing for no apparent reason. In extreme cases, death can occur. The majority of sufferers are people who smoke or are overweight. Interestingly, sleeping with the windows open was thought to be dangerous, because Inguma could enter more easily; people suffering from respiratory problems kept their windows closed at night, blocking every possible opening, as it was believed the genie could slip through the tiniest crack. Naturally, cot deaths were also blamed on Inguma, and before putting their children to bed people would recite a magic formula to ward off the demon. As when addressing witches, it was essential to begin by stating that you believed in them, but didn’t fear them. It went something like this:

Inguma, I do not fear you.

I call upon God and the Virgin Mary to protect me.

Until you have counted every star in the sky,

Every blade of grass upon the earth,

Every grain of sand upon the beach,

You will not come to me.

‘It’s a wonderful spell, commanding the demon to perform a task that will take an eternity. Very similar to the eguzkilore used against witches, who must count all the thorns on a thistle before entering a house. As this takes all night, by the time dawn comes they have to run and hide. What’s interesting about Inguma is that, although it’s one of the least-studied night demons, it has identical equivalents in other cultures.’

‘I’d like to see Esparza explaining to Judge Markina that his daughter was killed by a night demon,’ said Montes.

‘He hasn’t confessed to killing her, but he hasn’t denied it either. He insists that he gave her up,’ explained Iriarte.

‘“Like all the other sacrifices”,’ added Zabalza. ‘What does he mean? Do you suppose this isn’t the first time he’s done this?’

‘Well, he’s going to have a hard time blaming it on a demon,’ said Montes. ‘I questioned some of his neighbours this morning and was lucky enough to find a woman who’d been watching television late that night. She “happened” to look out of her window, and saw the couple arrive home after their evening out. Twenty minutes later, she was surprised to hear the car leave again. She said she was worried the baby might be unwell, so she listened out. Twenty minutes later, she heard the car return. This time, she peeped through the spyhole in her front door, just to make sure the baby was all right, and saw Esparza go into the house alone.’

Iriarte shrugged.

‘Then we’ve got him.’

Amaia agreed.

‘Yes, everything points to the husband, but three things need clearing up: the smell and saliva traces on the bear; Esparza’s obsession with his daughter’s body not being cremated; and what he meant by “Like all the other sacrifices.” Incidentally,’ she said, holding up the photograph she had been examining, ‘is it a trick of the camera, or is there something in the coffin?’

‘Yes,’ admitted Iriarte. ‘Initially, we mistook it for quilting, but the funeral director alerted us. It seems Esparza placed three bags of sugar wrapped in a white towel in the coffin. Clearly, so that the bearers wouldn’t notice it was empty.’

‘Right,’ said Amaia, putting the photograph down next to the others. ‘We’ll wait and see if the tests on the third trace open up another line of inquiry; he may have picked up someone on the way. Good work,’ she added, signalling that the meeting was over. Jonan lagged behind.

‘Is everything okay, boss?’

She looked at him, attempting to disguise her unease. Who was she trying to fool? Jonan knew her almost as well as she knew herself, but she was aware that she couldn’t always tell him everything. She put him off the scent by mentioning something else that was bothering her.

‘My sister Flora is in Elizondo, insisting we hold a funeral service for our mother; just thinking about it makes me feel sick, and as if that weren’t enough, the rest of my family is siding with her, including James. I’ve tried to explain my reasons for thinking she’s still alive, but I’ve only succeeded in making them angry with me for preventing them from closing this chapter in their lives.’

‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t believe she fell in that river either.’

Amaia gave a sigh, looking straight at him.

‘Of course it is, Jonan, very much so … You’re a good cop, and I trust your instinct. It’s a great relief to have you on my side.’

Jonan nodded without much conviction, as he went round the table gathering up the photographs.

‘Do you need me to go somewhere with you, boss?’

‘I’m off home, Jonan,’ she replied.

He smiled wistfully at her on his way out, leaving her with the familiar feeling of having been unable to pull the wool over his eyes.

As she drove towards the Txokoto River, she passed Juanitaenea, the house that had belonged to her grandmother. James had planned to restore it so that they could live there; the building materials he’d ordered were sitting on pallets outside the house, but there was no sign of any activity.

She was tempted to stop off at the bakery on her way, but decided against it: she had too much going on in her head to become embroiled in another discussion with Ros over the funeral. Instead, she crossed the Giltxaurdi Bridge and parked near the old market. She knew the house she was looking for was close by, but all the houses on that street looked the same and she couldn’t remember which one it was. In the end she took a guess, smiling with relief when Elena Ochoa opened the door.

‘Can we talk?’ Amaia asked her.

The woman responded by seizing her arm and pulling her into the house, then she leaned out to look up and down the street. As on her previous visit, Amaia followed Elena through to the kitchen. Not a word was exchanged as Elena made coffee for them both, placing two cups on a plastic tray covered with kitchen roll. Amaia was grateful for the silence; every instant the woman spent on her precise coffee-making ritual gave Amaia time to order the instincts – for she could scarcely call them thoughts or ideas – that had brought her there. They clattered in her head like the echo from a blow, as the stream of images in her mind amalgamated with others engraved on her memory. She had gone there searching for answers, yet she wasn’t sure she had the questions. Aunt Engrasi always used to tell her: ‘You’ll only find the answers if you know which questions to ask.’ But all she had to go on in this case was a small, white coffin, weighted with bags of sugar, and the word ‘sacrifice’. It was an ominous combination.

She noticed that the woman was trying to steady her hands as she spooned sugar into two cups. She began to stir the brew, but the chink of the spoon on the china seemed to exasperate her to the point where she hurled the spoon on to the tray.

‘Forgive me, my nerves are bad. Tell me what you want, and let’s be done.’

This was Baztán hospitality. Elena Ochoa had no desire to speak to her, in fact she couldn’t wait for her to leave the house and would heave a sigh of relief when she saw her walk through the door, yet she wouldn’t renege on the sacred ritual of offering a visitor something to drink or eat. She was one of those women who did what had to be done. Reassured by that thought, Amaia cupped her hands round the coffee she wouldn’t have time to drink, and spoke.

‘When I came here last, I asked you whether the sect had ever carried out a human sacrifice …’

At this, Elena began to shake uncontrollably.

‘Please … You must leave, I have nothing to say.’

‘Elena, you’ve got to help me. My mother is still out there. I need you to tell me where that house is, I know that’s where I’ll find answers.’

‘I can’t – they’ll kill me.’

‘Who?’

She shook her head, terrified.

‘We’ll give you protection,’ said Amaia, casting a sidelong glance at the little effigy of the virgin with a flickering candle in front of it, and a worn string of rosary beads draped at the base; beside it stood a couple of postcards bearing images of Christ.

‘You can’t protect me from them.’

‘Do you think they carried out a sacrifice?’

Elena stood up, emptying the remains of her coffee into the sink, her back to Amaia as she washed up her cup.

‘No. The proof is that you’re still alive; at the time, the only pregnant woman in the group was Rosario. I’ve thanked God a thousand times for keeping you safe. Perhaps in the end they were trying to impress us, to cow us into submission by making themselves seem more dangerous and powerful …’

Amaia took in the array of talismans with which Elena had surrounded herself: the poor woman was desperately trying to convince herself that she was in control, and yet her body language betrayed her.

‘Elena, look at me,’ she commanded.

Elena turned off the tap, dropped the sponge and swung round to look at her.

‘I had a twin sister who died at birth. The official cause was registered as cot death.’

Pale with fear, the woman raised her hands, placed them over her distraught face, moist with tears, and asked: ‘Where is she buried? Where is she buried?’

Amaia shook her head, watching the woman flinch as she went on to explain:

‘We don’t know. I found her tomb, but the coffin was empty.’

Elena gave a terrible, visceral howl, and lunged at Amaia, who leapt to her feet, startled.

‘Leave my house! Leave my house and never come back!’ she screamed, corralling Amaia to force her to walk on.

Before opening the front door, Amaia turned once more to plead with the woman.

‘At least tell me where the house is.’

After the door slammed shut, she could still hear the woman’s muffled sobs coming from inside.

Instinctively, she reached into her pocket for her phone and dialled Special Agent Aloisius Dupree. She pressed it tightly to her ear as she walked back to her car, listening hard for the faintest sound at the other end of the line. She was about to hang up, when she heard a crackle. She knew he was there, the FBI agent who had been her mentor during her time in New Orleans, and who remained an important part of her life, despite the distances. The sound that reached her through the earpiece a moment later made a shiver run up her spine: the repetitive drone of a funeral chant, the echo of voices suggesting a large space, possibly a cathedral. There was something bleak and sinister about the way three words were repeated over and over again in a monotone. But it was the shrill, anguished death cry that made her stomach turn. The tortured death throes continued for a few seconds, then at last the pitiful sound faded, she assumed because Dupree was moving away.

When at last he spoke, his voice betrayed the same anguish she herself felt.

‘Don’t call me again, I’ll call you.’ Then he hung up, leaving Amaia feeling so small and far away from him that it made her want to scream.

She was still holding her phone when it rang. She looked at the screen with a mixture of hope and panic. She recognised the FBI’s ID number and heard Agent Johnson’s friendly voice greeting her from Virginia. He announced that the seminars at Quantico had been given the green light, and they were hoping she might contribute to the area of studies concerned with criminal behaviour. They were currently in the process of requesting permission from her superior.

Up to that point, their conversation didn’t differ from any of the previous conversations she’d had with FBI officials, but the fact that she’d received the call moments after speaking to Dupree didn’t escape her notice, and what Agent Johnson said next instantly confirmed to her that they were monitoring her calls.

‘Inspector, have you had any type of contact with Special Agent Dupree?’

Amaia bit her lip, hesitating, as she recalled the conversation she’d had with Agent Johnson a month or so ago, when he’d advised her not to use official telephone lines for anything relating to Agent Dupree, and had given her a special number to call. On the rare occasions when she had managed to get in touch with Dupree, his voice always sounded far away, plagued with echoes; invariably, they got cut off, and on one occasion his number had vanished from her phone as if the call had never taken place. Then there had been the mysterious emails she’d asked Jonan to look into; he’d succeeded in tracking the source to an IP address in Baton Rouge, Louisiana – at which point the FBI stepped in and ordered him to desist with the search. Johnson had asked her about Dupree as if he’d forgotten what she’d told him during their last conversation, namely that Dupree always answered her calls. In any event, Johnson was calling her now because he knew she had just spoken to Dupree. Informing her that she had been accepted on to the course was simply a pretext.

‘Not very often. I occasionally call to say hello, the same way I do with you,’ she said, nonchalantly.

‘Have you spoken to Agent Dupree about the case he is currently working on?’

Johnson sounded as if he were ticking boxes on an internal questionnaire sheet.

‘No, I didn’t even know he was working on a new case.’

‘If Agent Dupree gets in touch with you again, will you inform us?’

‘You’re freaking me out, Agent Johnson, is something wrong?’

‘Only that in the last few days we’ve had trouble contacting Agent Dupree. I expect the situation has gotten a little complicated, and for reasons of security he’s decided to lie low. There’s no need for you to be alarmed, Inspector. However, if Dupree does get in touch with you, we’d be grateful if you’d let us know immediately.’

‘I’ll do that, Agent Johnson.’

‘Thank you, Inspector, we look forward to seeing you here very soon.’

She hung up, then sat in her car for ten minutes waiting for the phone to ring again. When it did, she recognised Johnson’s private number on the screen.

‘What was that all about?’

‘I told you, Dupree has his own way of doing things. He’s been incommunicado for some time, which, as you know, is normal when you’re working undercover. Finding the right moment can be difficult. However, that, together with Agent Dupree’s somewhat irreverent attitude, is causing them to question the security of his identity.’

‘You mean they think his cover might have been blown?’

‘That’s the official version. The truth is, they think he may have been taken hostage.’

‘What do you think?’ she said, warily, wondering how far she could trust Johnson. How could she be sure this second call wasn’t also being recorded?

‘I think Dupree knows what he’s doing.’

‘So do I,’ she declared, with all the conviction she could muster, as the grotesque cries she had heard when Dupree answered his phone resounded once more in her head.