Читать книгу The Legacy of the Bones - Долорес Редондо, Dolores Redondo - Страница 12

Amaia spotted Lieutenant Padua as soon as she entered Bar Iruña in Plaza del Castillo, a stone’s throw from her house. He was the only man sitting alone, and although he had his back turned, she recognised the tell-tale dampness of his raincoat.

‘Raining in Baztán, is it, Lieutenant?’ she said by way of greeting.

‘As always, Inspector, as always.’

Taking a seat opposite him, she ordered a decaf and a small bottle of water. She waited for the barman to put her drinks down on the table.

‘So, tell me what you wanted to talk to me about.’

‘About the Johana Márquez case,’ said Lieutenant Padua, without preamble. ‘Or rather, the Jasón Medina case, because we all agree that he alone was responsible for the girl’s murder. It’s been nearly four months since Jasón Medina took his own life in the courthouse toilets the day his trial was due to start.’ Amaia nodded. ‘As is customary with these incidents, we carried out a routine inquiry, which would have ended there, had I not received a visit a few days later from the prison guard who’d accompanied Medina from the jail. Perhaps you remember him? He was downstairs in the toilets, white as a sheet.’

‘Yes, I remember a prison guard as well as a policeman.’

‘That’s the guy, Luis Rodríguez. He came to see me, visibly upset, implored me to make it clear in my conclusions that he was absolved of any responsibility, especially over the box cutter Medina used to kill himself, which a third party must have brought into the courthouse. He was extremely worried, he said, because this was the second time a prisoner had committed suicide on his watch. The first time was three years ago: a prisoner hanged himself in his cell during the night. On that occasion the prison authorities admitted responsibility for having failed to activate the suicide prevention protocol by placing two guards on watch, but Rodríguez was afraid this latest suicide might lead to his being suspended or possibly dismissed. I reassured him then casually asked about this other guy. He had murdered his wife and then mutilated her body by severing one of her arms. Rodríguez didn’t know whether the limb had been recovered or not, so imagine my surprise when I call the Logroño police, who investigated the case, and they tell me, yes, this guy had murdered his estranged wife, who’d taken out a restraining order following a previous attack. The kind of story we hear about every day on the news, nothing more to it. He rang her bell and, when she opened the door, he pushed her against the wall, knocked her unconscious, then stabbed her twice in the stomach. Afterwards, he ransacked the house, even heating up a plate of stew, which he ate in the kitchen while he watched her bleed to death. Then he left without bothering to close the door. A neighbour found the dead woman. Two hours later they arrested the husband in a local bar, drunk and still covered in his wife’s blood. He immediately confessed to her murder, but when asked about the mutilation denied all knowledge of it.’

Padua gave a sigh. ‘Amputation at the elbow, using a sharp, serrated object, such as an electric carving knife or a compass saw. What do you think of that, Inspector?’

Amaia clasped her hands together, pressed both forefingers to her lips, and remained silent for a few moments before replying.

‘What I think, for now, is that this is a coincidence. He could have severed her arm to remove items of jewellery, a wedding ring, or to try to conceal her identity – although, given she was in her own house, that wouldn’t make much sense. Unless there’s something else …’

‘There is,’ Padua affirmed. ‘I went to Logroño and spoke to the two police officers who led the investigation. What they told me bore even more resemblance to the Johana Márquez case: the crime had been violent and gruesome, the house was a mess, even the blood-soaked knife they found next to his wife’s body was taken from her kitchen. During the attack, he cut his hand, but rather than bandage it, he left his bloody fingerprints all over the house. He even urinated in the toilet and didn’t bother to flush. His actions were brutal and chaotic, like the man himself. Yet the amputation was carried out post-mortem, with no significant loss of blood, neatly severed at the elbow. Neither the limb nor the sharp blade used to carry out the amputation were ever recovered.’

Amaia nodded, absorbed.

‘I spoke to the prison governor, who informed me that the prisoner had only been there a matter of days before he killed himself, and had shown neither remorse nor depression – which is unusual in cases of this nature. He was calm, relaxed, had a good appetite, and slept like a baby. As he was still adapting to prison life, he spent most of the time alone in his cell, where he received no visits from relatives or friends. Then suddenly one night, despite never having shown any inclination to self-harm, he hanged himself in his cell. And trust me, it must have taken a supreme effort, because there’s nothing in those cubicles high enough for a person to hang themselves from. He basically sat on the floor and strangled himself, which requires enormous willpower. The guard heard him struggling to breathe and sounded the alarm. He was still alive when they entered the cell, but died before the ambulance arrived.’

‘Did he leave a suicide note?’

‘I asked the governor about that. He said “sort of”.’

‘Sort of?’

‘He told me the guy had carved some gibberish into the plaster on the wall with the tip of his toothbrush,’ said Padua, sliding a photograph out of an envelope he laid on the table. He swivelled it until the image was facing her.

It had been painted over, although they hadn’t bothered to plaster over the grooves. The photograph had been taken at an angle so that the flash clearly highlighted the bold lettering. A single, perfectly legible word:

‘TARTTALO.’

Amaia raised her eyes in astonishment, gazing at Padua searchingly. The lieutenant grinned, pleased with himself, as he leant back in his chair.

‘I can see this has piqued your interest, Inspector. Tarttalo, spelled the same way as in the note Medina left for you,’ he said. He dropped a plastic folder on to the table. Inside was an envelope addressed to Inspector Salazar.

Amaia remained silent, considering everything Lieutenant Padua had told her during the past hour. Despite her best efforts, she could find no logical, satisfactory explanation as to how two ordinary, bungling, disorganised killers could have performed identical mutilations on their victims without leaving any clues as to how they did it, when the rest of the crime scene was littered with evidence; or why they had used the exact same word to sign their crime, a word that was anything but commonplace.

‘Well, Lieutenant, I see where you’re going with this. What I don’t understand is why you’re telling me about it. After all, the Johana Márquez affair is the Guardia Civil’s responsibility, as are prisoner transports. The case, if there is one, is yours,’ she said, sliding the photographs back towards Padua.

He picked them up, gazed at them in silence, then heaved a loud sigh.

‘The problem, Inspector Salazar, is that there isn’t going to be a case. I looked into this on my own, based on what Rodríguez told me. The Logroño case was handled by the police there and is officially closed, as is that of Johana Márquez, now that her confessed killer is dead. I presented everything I told you to my superiors, but they say there’s insufficient cause to open an investigation.’

Head in hand, Amaia listened intently, chewing on her bottom lip.

‘What do you want me to do, Padua?’

‘What I want, Inspector, is to be sure that the two crimes aren’t related, but my hands are tied … In any event, at the end of the day, you’re already involved. And this,’ he added, sliding the envelope back to her, ‘is yours.’

Amaia ran her finger over the shiny plastic folder and along the edge of the envelope that bore her name in small, neat handwriting.

‘Have you visited Medina’s cell at the prison?’

‘How did you guess!’ Padua laughed and shook his head. ‘I went there this morning before I called you.’

Leaning to one side, he took a file out of his bag. ‘Page eight,’ he said, placing it on the table.

Amaia instantly recognised the file: an autopsy report. She had seen hundreds of them, the name and number printed on the cover.

‘Medina’s autopsy report, but we already know how he died.’

‘Page eight,’ Padua insisted.

While Amaia started to read, the lieutenant reeled off the passage as if he knew it by heart.

‘The index finger on Jasón Medina’s right hand showed significant damage. The nail was missing, and the skin flayed so that the flesh was showing. The prison governor let me go through Medina’s personal effects. His wife doesn’t want them, and no one else has claimed them, so they’re still at the prison. As far as I can see, Medina was quite a simple fellow. No books, no photographs, no real possessions, just a few back issues of a glossy magazine and a sports journal. His personal hygiene was basic; he didn’t even own a toothbrush. I asked to see his cell, which at first glance appeared unremarkable. Other inmates have occupied it over the past four months. But I had a hunch, so I sprayed the walls with Luminol and the place lit up like a Christmas tree. Inspector, the night before his trial Jasón Medina scraped his finger practically down to the bone to write in blood on his cell wall the same word as the prisoner in Logroño. And afterwards, like his predecessor, he took his own life, the only difference being that Medina did so outside the prison, because he had to give you this,’ he said, pointing to the envelope.

Amaia picked it up without looking at it and slipped it into her pocket before leaving the bar. As she made her way home, she could feel its ominous presence, pressed against her side like a warm poultice. She took out her mobile phone and punched in Deputy Inspector Etxaide’s number.

‘Hello, chief.’

‘Good evening, Jonan, forgive me for calling you at home …’

‘How can I help?’

‘I want you to find out everything you can about the mythological creature tarttalo, or any references to something spelled t-a-r-t-t-a-l-o.’

‘No problem, I’ll have it for you tomorrow. Was there anything else?’

‘No, that’s all. Thanks a lot, Jonan.’

‘My pleasure, chief. See you tomorrow.’

Hanging up, she realised how late she was; Ibai had been due his feed nearly three-quarters of an hour earlier. Anxious to get home, she broke into a run, dodging the few pedestrians who had braved the chilly Pamplona weather. As she ran, she couldn’t help thinking about how punctual Ibai was with his feeds, how he woke up demanding to be fed every four hours, practically to the minute. She glimpsed her house halfway along the street. Still running, she fumbled in the pocket of her quilted jacket for her key, and, as though performing a perfect bullfighter’s lunge, inserted it in the lock and opened the door. The baby’s hoarse cries reached her like a wave of despair from the first floor. She bounded up the stairs without taking off her coat, her mind filling with absurd images of Ibai left to cry in his cot while James lay asleep, or of James staring at the baby, incapable of consoling him.

But James wasn’t asleep. Rushing into the kitchen, Amaia found him rocking Ibai on his shoulder, singing in an effort to calm him.

‘For heaven’s sake, James, haven’t you given him the bottle?’ she asked, reflecting on her own ambiguous feelings about the matter.

‘Hi, Amaia, I did try,’ he said, gesturing towards a feeding bottle full of milk languishing on the table, ‘but he doesn’t want to know,’ he added, smiling sheepishly.

‘Are you sure you mixed it properly?’ she said, looking askance at him and shaking the bottle.

‘Yes, I’m sure,’ James replied good-naturedly, still rocking the baby. ‘Fifty millilitres of water to two level scoops of formula.’

Amaia slipped off her coat and tossed it on to a chair.

‘Give him to me,’ she said.

‘Relax, Amaia,’ said James, trying to calm her. ‘Ibai is fine, he’s just a bit grouchy, that’s all. I’ve been holding him all this time, he hasn’t been crying long.’

She all but snatched the baby from James, walked into the sitting room and sank into an armchair as his wails crescendoed.

‘How long is not long?’ she demanded, crossly. ‘Half an hour, an hour? If you’d fed him on time, he would never have got into this state.’

James’s smile faded.

‘Less than ten minutes, Amaia. When you didn’t come home, I prepared the bottle in time for his feed. But he didn’t want it, because he prefers breast milk, the artificial stuff tastes funny. I’m sure if you hadn’t come back when you did, he would have ended up taking the bottle.’

‘I wasn’t late out of choice,’ she snapped. ‘I was working.’

James looked at her, bewildered. ‘No one is saying otherwise.’

Ibai was still crying, moving his head from side to side frantically in search of her tantalisingly close nipple. She felt the intense, painful suction, as the wailing ceased, leaving a deafening silence in the room.

Distraught, Amaia closed her eyes. It was her fault. She had been out too long. Carelessly, she’d lost track of time, while her son was crying to be fed. She placed a trembling hand on his tiny head and stroked his downy hair. A tear rolled down her cheek and fell on to her child’s face. Oblivious to his mother’s anguish, he was suckling softly now as sleep overtook him and his eyelids closed.

‘Amaia,’ whispered James, drying the wet streaks on his wife’s face with his fingers. ‘It’s no big deal, my love. He didn’t suffer, I promise. And he only started hollering a few minutes before you arrived. Don’t fret, Amaia, he isn’t the first baby to start taking formula. I’m sure the others protested just as loudly.’

By now Ibai was sound asleep. Amaia buttoned up her blouse, handed the baby to James, and fled the room. He could hear her throwing up.

She hadn’t been aware of falling asleep, which usually happened when she was exhausted. She woke up with a start, convinced she’d heard a loud sigh from her son in his sleep, after the terrible tantrum he’d had earlier. But the room was quiet, and, raising herself up a little, she could see, or rather sense in the dim light, that her son was sleeping peacefully. She turned towards James, who was also asleep, face down, right arm crooked under his pillow. She leant over without thinking and kissed his head. He fumbled for her hand with his free arm, in a mutual gesture they both made several times each night unconsciously. Reassured, she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

Until she was woken by the wind. The deafening gusts howled in her ears, roaring magnificently. She opened her eyes and saw her. Lucía Aguirre was staring at Amaia from the banks of the River Baztán. She was wearing her red-and-white pullover, which looked oddly festive, her left arm clasped about her waist. Lucía’s mournful gaze reached her like an enchanted bridge spanning the turbulent waters of the river; Amaia could see in the woman’s eyes all her fear, her pain, but most of all, in the despairing look she gave Amaia, her infinite sadness as she accepted an eternity of wind and solitude. Suppressing her own fear, Amaia sat up in bed, held the woman’s gaze, then nodded, encouraging her to speak. And Lucía spoke, but her words were snatched away by the wind before Amaia could make out a single sound. She seemed to be shrieking, desperate to be heard, until her strength failed her and she sank to her knees, her face hidden momentarily. When she looked up again, her lips were moving rhythmically, repeating what sounded like just one word: ‘tar … trap … rat … rat …’

‘I will,’ Amaia whispered. ‘I’ll trap the rat.’

But Lucía Aguirre was no longer looking at her. She simply shook her head, even as her face sank into the river.