Читать книгу The Invisible Guardian - Долорес Редондо, Dolores Redondo - Страница 12

Amaia walked slightly distractedly through the old town of Pamplona, making her way towards her house, an old restored building right in the middle of Calle Mercaderes. In the Thirties there had been an umbrella shop on the ground floor and the old sign announcing Izaguirre Umbrellas ‘Hold quality and prestige in your hands’ was still visible. James always said that the main reason he had chosen the house was for the space and light in the workshop, a perfect location to install his sculptor’s studio, but she knew that the thing that had prompted her husband to buy the house in the middle of the bull running course was the same thing that had brought him to Pamplona in the first place. Like thousands of North Americans, he felt an enormous passion for the San Fermín festival, for Hemingway and for this city, a passion that seemed almost childish to her and which he revived each year when the festival arrived. Much to Amaia’s relief, James didn’t take part in the bull running, but every day he would stroll along the eight hundred and fifty metres of the course from Santo Domingo, learning by heart each curve, each stumbling block, each paving stone all the way to the square. She loved the way she would see him smile each year as the festival drew near, the way he would dig his white clothes out of a trunk and would set out to buy a new neckerchief, even though he seemed to have hundreds already. He had been in Pamplona for a couple of years when she met him; he was living in a pretty flat in the city centre at the time and renting a studio to work in very near the town hall. When they decided to get married, James took her to see the house on Calle Mercaderes and she thought it was magnificent, although too big and too expensive. This wasn’t a problem for James, who was already starting to earn a certain prestige in the art world. Furthermore, he came from a wealthy family of state-of-the-art work-wear manufacturers in the United States. They bought the house, James installed his studio in the old workshop and they promised themselves they would fill it with children as soon as Amaia became an inspector on the homicide team.

It was four years since she’d become an inspector, San Fermín came round each year, James became more famous in artistic circles, but the children didn’t arrive. Amaia lifted her hand to her stomach in a subconscious gesture of protection and longing. She quickened her pace until she overtook a group of Romanian immigrants who were arguing in the street and smiled when she saw the light glowing in James’ workshop between the slits in the shutters. She looked at her watch, it was almost half past ten and he was still working. She opened the front door, left her keys on the old table that acted as a sideboard and went to the workshop, passing through what used to be the house’s entrance hall, which still retained its original floor of large round stones and a trapdoor that led to a blind passage where wine or oil had been stored in the old days. James was washing a piece of grey marble in a sink full of soapy water. He smiled when he saw her.

‘Give me a minute to get this great toad out of the water and I’ll be with you.’

He arranged the piece of stone on a rack, covered it with a piece of linen and dried his hands on the white cook’s apron he normally wore to work in.

‘How are you, my love? Tired?’

He wrapped his arms around her and she felt like there were butterflies in her stomach, as she always did when they embraced. She breathed in the scent of his chest through his jersey and waited a moment before replying.

‘I’m not tired, but it’s been a strange day.’

He drew back enough to be able to see her face.

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Well, we’re still working on the case of the girl from my town. It turns out that it’s quite similar to another one from a month ago, also in Elizondo, and it’s been established that the cases are related.’

‘Related in what way?’

‘It looks like it’s the same killer.’

‘Oh God, that means there’s an animal out there who kills young girls.’

‘They’re almost still children, James. The thing is, the Commissioner has put me in charge of the investigation.’

‘Congratulations, Inspector,’ he said, kissing her.

‘It hasn’t made everyone all that happy, Montes didn’t take it very well. I think he got quite angry.’

‘Don’t worry about him, you know Fermín: he’s a good man but he’s going through a difficult time right now. He’ll get over it, he admires you.’

‘I’m not sure …’

‘But I am, he admires you. Believe me. Are you hungry?’

‘Have you made something?’

‘Of course, Chef Westford has prepared the house special.’

‘I’m dying to taste it. What is it?’ asked Amaia, smiling.

‘What do you mean what is it? Beggars can’t be choosers! Spaghetti with mushrooms and a bottle of Chivite rosé.’

‘You go and open it while I shower.’

She kissed her husband and headed for the shower. Once beneath the water she closed her eyes and let it run down her face for a while, then rested her hands and her forehead against the tiles, which were cold in contrast, and felt the jet of water stream down her neck and shoulders. The day’s events had followed on from one another in quick succession and she hadn’t yet had the chance to weigh up the consequences the case might have for her career or for her immediate future. A gust of cold air surrounded her as James got into the shower. She stayed where she was, enjoying the warmth of the water, which seemed to carry any coherent thought down the drain with it. James stood behind her and kissed her shoulders very slowly. Amaia tilted her head sideways offering him her neck in a gesture that always made her think of the old Dracula films, in which his naïve and virginal victims surrendering themselves to the vampire, would uncover their necks as far as the shoulder and half close their eyes in the hope of superhuman pleasures. James kissed her neck, pressing his body against hers and turned her as he searched for her mouth. Contact with James’s lips was enough, as always, to banish all other thoughts from her mind. She ran her hands sensuously over her husband’s body, delighting in the feel of him, in the smooth firmness of his flesh, and let him kiss her sweetly.

‘I love you,’ James groaned in her ear.

‘I love you,’ she murmured. And she smiled at the certainty that this was true, that she loved him more than anything, more than anyone, and at how happy it made her to have him between her legs, inside her, and to make love with him. When they finished, this same smile would last for hours, as if a moment with him was enough to exorcise all the world’s ills.

Deep down, Amaia thought that only he could really make her feel like a woman. In her daily professional life she let her feminine side take second place and concentrated solely on doing a good job; but outside work, her height and her slim, sinewy body, together with the rather sober clothes she usually chose, made her feel quite unfeminine when she was around other women, particularly the wives of James’s colleagues, who were shorter and more petite, with their small, smooth hands that had never touched a dead body. She didn’t normally wear jewellery except her wedding ring and some small earrings that James told her were like a little girl’s; her hair in its practical ponytail and the minimal make-up she wore combined to give her a serious and rather masculine appearance which he loved and she cultivated. In addition, Amaia knew that the firmness of her voice and the confidence with which she spoke and moved were enough to intimidate those bitches when they made malicious comments about her delayed motherhood. A subject she found upsetting.

They chatted while they ate and went to bed straight away. She admired James’s ability to disconnect from the day’s troubles and close his eyes as soon as his head hit the pillow. She always took a long time to relax enough to sleep; sometimes she read for hours before she managed it, and she would wake up at even the smallest noise during the night. The year she was promoted to Inspector she used to become so tense and nervous during the day that she would fall exhaustedly into a deep, amnesiac sleep, only to wake up two or three hours later with her back paralysed by a painful spasm that would prevent her from dropping off again. The tension had decreased with time, but she still wasn’t getting very good quality sleep. She used to leave a small lamp on the landing switched on so that its slanting light would reach the bedroom and help her orientate herself when she woke with a start from one of her frequent nightmares. Now she tried in vain to concentrate on the book she was holding. Eventually, exhausted and preoccupied, she let it slip to the floor. She didn’t turn out the light, though, but stared at the ceiling, planning the coming day. Attending the funeral and burial of Ainhoa Elizasu. With crimes like these, the killer often knew his victims, and it was probable that he lived near them and saw them every day. These murderers demonstrated a remarkable audacity. Their self-confidence and morbid tastes would often lead them to collaborate with the investigation, taking part in the search for the missing victims and attending vigils, funerals, and burials, in some cases offering public displays of their sympathy and distress. For the moment they couldn’t be sure of anything, not even the relatives had been ruled out as suspects. But as a starting point it wasn’t bad, it would be useful to get a feel for the situation, to observe reactions, to listen to comments and people’s opinions. And, of course, to see her sisters and her aunt … It hadn’t been long since she’d last seen them, on Christmas Eve, and Flora and Ros had ended up arguing. She sighed deeply.

‘If you don’t stop thinking out loud, you’ll never get to sleep,’ said James drowsily.

‘I’m sorry, darling, did I wake you up?’

‘Don’t worry,’ he smiled, sitting up beside her. ‘But do you want to tell me what’s going on in your head?’

‘You already know I’m going up to Elizondo tomorrow … I’ve been thinking about staying for a few days. I think it would be better to be there, to speak to the families and friends and get more of a general impression. What do you think?’

‘It must be pretty cold up there.’

‘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.