Читать книгу The Legacy of the Bones - Долорес Редондо, Dolores Redondo - Страница 8

The atmosphere in the courthouse was stifling. The damp from rain-soaked overcoats was starting to evaporate, mixing with the breath of the hundreds of people thronging the corridors outside the various courtrooms. Amaia undid her jacket as she greeted Lieutenant Padua, who made his way towards her through the waiting crowd, after speaking briefly to the woman accompanying him and ushering her into the courtroom.

‘Good to see you, Inspector,’ he said. ‘How are you? I wasn’t sure you’d make it here today,’ he added, pointing to her swollen belly.

Amaia raised a hand to her midriff, heavy from the late stages of pregnancy.

‘Well, she seems to be behaving herself for the moment. Have you seen Johana’s mother?’

‘Yes, she’s pretty nervous. She’s inside with her family. They’ve just called from downstairs to tell me the van transporting Jasón Medina has arrived,’ he said, heading for the lift.

Amaia entered the courtroom and sat down on one of the benches at the back. From there she was able to glimpse Johana’s mother, dressed in mourning and considerably thinner than at her daughter’s funeral. As though sensing her presence, the woman turned to look, greeting her with a brief nod. Amaia tried unsuccessfully to smile as she contemplated the haggard features of the woman, who was tormented by the knowledge that she had been powerless to protect her daughter from the monster she herself had brought into their home. As the court clerk began to call out the names of the witnesses, Amaia couldn’t help noticing the woman’s face stiffen when she heard her husband’s name.

‘Jasón Medina,’ the clerk repeated. ‘Jasón Medina.’

A uniformed officer entered the courtroom, approached the clerk and whispered something in his ear. He in turn leaned over to speak to the judge, who listened to what he said then nodded, before calling the prosecution and defence barristers to the bench. He spoke to them briefly then rose to his feet.

‘The trial is adjourned; if necessary, you will be summoned again.’ And without another word, he left the courtroom.

Johana’s mother cried out, turning to Amaia for an explanation.

‘No!’ she screamed. ‘Why?’

The women with her tried helplessly to comfort her.

Another officer walked over to Amaia.

‘Inspector Salazar, Lieutenant Padua has asked if you would go down to the holding cells.’

As she stepped out of the lift, she saw a group of police officers gathered outside the toilet door. The guard accompanying her motioned to her to enter. Inside, a prison officer and a policeman stood propped against the wall, their faces distraught. Padua was leaning into one of the cubicles, his feet at the edge of a pool of still fresh blood seeping under the partition walls. When he saw the inspector arrive, he stepped aside.

‘He told the guard he needed to use the toilet. As you can see, he was handcuffed, yet he managed to slit his own throat. It all happened very fast, the officer didn’t move from here, heard him cough and went in, but there was nothing he could do.’

Amaia went in to survey the scene. Jasón Medina was sitting on the toilet, head tilted back. His throat was gaping from a deep, dark gash. His shirtfront was drenched in blood, which oozed like red mucus between his legs, staining everything in its path. His body still radiated warmth, and the air was tainted with the smell of recent death.

‘What did he use?’ asked Amaia, who couldn’t see any object.

‘A box cutter. He dropped it as the strength drained out of him. It’s in the next-door toilet,’ he said, pushing open the door to the adjacent cubicle.

‘How did he get it through security? The metal would have set the alarm off.’

‘He didn’t. Look,’ said Padua, pointing. ‘See that piece of duct tape on the handle? Somebody went to a lot of trouble to hide the cutter in here, no doubt behind the cistern. All Medina had to do was peel it off.’

Amaia sighed.

‘And there’s more,’ said Padua, with a look of distaste. ‘This was sticking out of his pocket,’ he said, holding up a white envelope in his gloved hand.

‘A suicide note?’ ventured Amaia.

‘Not exactly,’ said Padua, handing her a pair of gloves and the envelope. ‘It’s addressed to you.’

‘To me?’ Amaia frowned.

She pulled on the gloves and took the envelope.

‘May I?’

‘Go ahead.’

The adhesive strip opened easily without her needing to tear the paper. Inside was a card; in the middle of it a single word was printed.

‘Tarttalo.’

Amaia felt a sharp twinge in her belly and held her breath to disguise the pain. She turned the card over to make sure nothing was written on the back, before returning it to Padua.

‘What does it mean?’

‘I was hoping you’d tell me.’

‘Well, I’ve no idea, Lieutenant Padua,’ she replied, puzzled. ‘It doesn’t make much sense to me.’

‘A tarttalo is a mythological creature, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, as far as I know it’s a kind of Cyclops. It exists in both Graeco-Roman and Basque mythology. What are you getting at?’

‘You worked on the basajaun case. The basajaun was also a mythological creature, and now Johana Márquez’s confessed murderer, who tried to copy one of the basajaun crimes to conceal his own, kills himself and leaves a note that says: “Tarttalo”. You must admit it’s curious, to say the least.’

‘You’re right.’ Amaia sighed. ‘It’s strange. However, at the time we proved beyond doubt that Jasón Medina raped and murdered his stepdaughter, then made a clumsy attempt to pass it off as one of the basajaun crimes. Not only that, he made a full confession. Are you suggesting he wasn’t the murderer?’

‘I don’t doubt it for a minute,’ said Padua, glancing at the corpse. ‘But there’s the question of the severed arm, and the girl’s bones turning up in the Arri Zahar cave. And now this. I was hoping you might …’

‘I’ve no idea what this means, or why he addressed it to me.’

Padua gave a sigh, his eyes fixed on her.

‘Of course not, Inspector.’

Amaia headed for the rear exit, anxious not to bump into Johana’s mother. What could she say to the woman: that it was all over, or that her husband, like the rat he was, had escaped to the next world? She flashed her ID at the security guards; it came as a relief to be free at last of the atmosphere inside. The rain had stopped and the bright yet hesitant sunlight, typical in Pamplona between showers, emerged through the clouds, making her eyes water as she rummaged in her bag for her dark glasses. As ever when it was raining, finding a taxi to take her to the courthouse during the morning rush hour had been almost impossible; but now several of them sat idling at the rank, while the city’s inhabitants chose to walk. She hesitated for a moment beside the first car. No, she wasn’t quite ready to go home; the prospect of Clarice running around, bombarding her with questions was decidedly unappealing. Since her in-laws had arrived a fortnight earlier, Amaia’s idea of home had been seriously challenged. She gazed towards the enticing windows of the cafés across from the courthouse and at the other end of Calle San Roque, where she could see the trees in Media Luna Park. Working out that it was roughly one and a half kilometres to her house, she set off on foot. She could always hail a taxi if she felt tired.

Leaving behind the roar of traffic as she entered the park gave her an instant sense of relief. The fresh scent of wet grass replaced the exhaust fumes, and Amaia instinctively slackened her pace as she crossed one of the stone paths that cut through the perfect greenness. She took deep breaths, exhaling with deliberate slowness. What a morning, she thought; Jasón Medina perfectly fitted the profile of the criminal who commits suicide in jail. Accused of raping and killing his wife’s daughter, he had been put in solitary confinement pending his trial; no doubt he’d been terrified at the prospect of having to mix with other prisoners after being sentenced. She remembered him from the interrogations nine months earlier, when they were investigating the basajaun case: a snivelling coward, weeping and wailing as he confessed his atrocities.

The two cases weren’t connected, but Lieutenant Padua of the Guardia Civil had invited her to sit in, because of Medina’s clumsy attempts to imitate the modus operandi of the serial killer she was chasing, based on what he had read in the newspapers. That was nine months ago, just when she became pregnant. Since then, a lot of things had changed.

‘Haven’t they, little one?’ she whispered, stroking her belly.

A violent contraction caused her to pull up short. Leaning on her umbrella for support, she doubled over, enduring the terrible spasm in her lower abdomen, which spread in a ripple down her inner thighs, wrenching a cry from her, more of surprise at the intensity than of pain. The sensation subsided as quickly as it had arisen.

So that’s how it felt. Countless times she had wondered what it would feel like to go into labour, whether she would recognise the signs, or be one of those women who arrived at the hospital with the baby already crowning, or who gave birth in the taxi.

‘Oh, my little one!’ Amaia spoke to her sweetly. ‘You still have another week. Are you sure you want to come out now?’

The pain had vanished, as if it had never happened. She felt an immense joy, accompanied by a twinge of anxiety at the imminence of her baby’s arrival. She smiled, glancing about as if she wished she could share her pleasure. But the moist, cool park was deserted and its emerald green colours, still more radiant and beautiful in the dazzling light seeping through the clouds above Pamplona, reminded her of the sense of discovery she always felt in Baztán, which in the city seemed like an unexpected gift. She continued on her way, transported now to that magical forest and the amber eyes of the lord of that domain. Only nine months previously she had been investigating a case there, in the place where she was born, the place she had always wanted to flee, the place where she had gone to hunt down a killer, and where she conceived her baby girl.

The knowledge that her daughter was growing inside her had brought the soothing calm and serenity to her life that she had always dreamt of. At that time it had been the only thing that helped her cope with the terrible events she had lived through, which a few months earlier would have been the death of her. Returning to Elizondo, dredging up her past, and, most of all, Víctor’s death, had turned her world and that of her entire family upside down. Aunt Engrasi was the only one unaffected, reading her tarot cards, playing poker with her women friends every afternoon, smiling like someone who has seen everything before. Overnight, Flora had moved to Zarautz, on the pretext of recording her daily programme on baking for national television, and, who would have believed it, had handed over the running of Mantecadas Salazar to Ros. Much to Flora’s astonishment – and confirming Amaia’s intuitions – Ros had turned out to be a first-class manager, if a little overwhelmed to begin with. Amaia had offered to help her out and for the past few months had been spending almost every weekend in Elizondo, even after she realised that Ros no longer needed her support. And yet she continued to go there, to eat with them, to sleep at her aunt’s house, feeling at home. From the moment her baby girl started to grow inside her, she’d begun to rediscover a feeling of home, of roots, of belonging, that for years she thought she had lost for ever.

As she came out into Calle Mayor it began to drizzle again. She opened her umbrella, picking her way between the shoppers and a few pedestrians who had no protection and were scurrying along beneath the eaves of the buildings and shop awnings. She paused in front of the colourful window of a store selling children’s clothes and contemplated the little pink smocks embroidered with tiny flowers. Clarice was probably right, she ought to buy something like that for her baby. She sighed, all of a sudden irritated, as she thought of the room Clarice had decorated for her child. James’s parents had come over from the States for the birth and after only ten days in Pamplona his mother had more than fulfilled Amaia’s worst expectations of what a meddlesome mother-in-law could be like. From the very first day, she voiced her bewilderment about there being no nursery despite all the spare rooms they had.

Amaia had salvaged an antique hardwood cot from her Aunt Engrasi’s sitting room, where for years it had been used as a log basket. James had sanded it down to the grain before applying a fresh coat of varnish, while Engrasi’s friends had made an exquisite valance and a white bedcover that accentuated the craftsmanship and character of the cot. There was plenty of space in their large bedroom; besides, despite what the experts said, Amaia wasn’t convinced about the merits of her baby having a separate room; for the first few months, while she was breastfeeding, having the baby nearby would make it easier to feed her during the night, and knowing that she could hear her if she cried or had a problem would reassure her …

Clarice had raised the roof. ‘The baby must have her own room, with all her things around her. Believe you me, both mother and baby will sleep better. If you have her next to you, you’ll be listening for her every breath and movement; she needs her space and you need yours. Anyway, it’s not healthy for a baby to share its parents’ bedroom, children become used to it and won’t be taken to their own room.’

Amaia had also read the advice of a host of celebrated paediatricians determined to indoctrinate an entire new generation of children into the ways of suffering: don’t pick them up too often, let them sleep alone from birth, don’t comfort them when they have a tantrum because they need to learn to be independent, to cope with their fears and failures. Such stupidity made Amaia’s stomach churn. It occurred to her that if any of these distinguished doctors had been obliged since birth to ‘cope’ with fear the way she had, they would have an entirely different view of the world. If her daughter wanted to sleep in their bedroom until she was three years old, that was fine by her: she would comfort her, listen to her, take seriously and allay her childish fears, because as she herself knew only too well, they could loom large in a child’s mind. But evidently Clarice had her own ideas about how things should be done, which she didn’t hesitate to share with everybody else.

Three days earlier, Amaia had arrived home to discover that her mother-in-law had given them a surprise gift: a magnificent nursery complete with wardrobes, a changer, chest of drawers, rugs, and lamps. A superabundance of pink fleecy clouds and little lambs, all wreathed in ribbons and lace. Amaia had been alarmed enough when James had opened the door, given her a kiss and whispered apologetically: ‘She means well.’ But when she was confronted by this profusion of pinkness, her smile froze as she realised she was being made to feel like a stranger in her own home. Clarice, on the other hand, was thrilled, gliding amidst the furniture like a TV presenter, while Amaia’s father-in-law, impassive as always when faced with his wife’s enthusiasm, carried on calmly reading the newspaper in the sitting room. Amaia found it difficult to reconcile the image of Thomas at the helm of a financial empire with the way he behaved towards his wife, with a mixture of submissiveness and apathy that never ceased to amaze her. If only because she knew how uncomfortable James felt, Amaia did her best to keep her composure while his mother extolled the marvels of the nursery she had bought for them.

‘Look at this lovely wardrobe, all her clothes will fit in there, and there is room in the changer for nappies as well as everything else. Aren’t the rugs cute? And over here,’ she said, grinning smugly, ‘the pièce de résistance: a cot fit for a princess.’

Amaia had to admit that the huge pink cot was indeed majestic, and big enough for her daughter to sleep in until she was at least four years old.

‘Very pretty,’ she forced herself to say.

‘It’s beautiful, so now you can give your aunt back her log basket.’

Amaia left the nursery without a word and went into her bedroom to wait for James.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart, she doesn’t mean to interfere, it’s just how she is. They’ll only be here a few more days. I know you’re being incredibly patient, and I promise you that after they’ve gone we’ll get rid of everything you don’t like.’

She had agreed for James’s sake and because she didn’t have the strength to argue with Clarice. James was right: she was being incredibly patient, even though it went against her nature. This was possibly the first time she had ever let anyone control her, but in this final stage of pregnancy, she had noticed a change come over her. For days now she had been feeling unwell; all the energy she had enjoyed during the first months had given way to an apathy that was unusual in her. Clarice’s domineering presence only brought that fragility to the fore. Amaia glanced again at the baby clothes in the shop window and decided they had quite enough with everything her mother-in-law had bought. Clarice’s extravagances as a first-time grandmother made Amaia feel queasy, but there was something else: secretly she would have given anything to have the same intoxicating love affair with pink that afflicted her mother-in-law.

Since she had become pregnant, all she had bought for her daughter was a pair of bootees, a few T-shirts, some leggings, and a set of Babygros in neutral colours. She told herself that pink wasn’t her favourite colour. When she browsed the shop windows and saw frocks, cardigans and skirts bedecked with ribbons and embroidered flowers, she thought they looked lovely, perfect for a little princess, but no sooner did she have them in her hand than she felt an intense aversion towards all those tasteless frills and ended up walking out, confused and irritated, without buying anything. She could have done with some of the enthusiasm shown by Clarice, who would dissolve into raptures at the sight of a frock and matching shoes. Amaia knew that she couldn’t have been happier, that she had always loved this baby, from the time when she herself had been a brooding, unhappy child dreaming of being a mother one day, a real mother, a desire that had crystallised when she met James. And when motherhood threatened to elude her, assailed with fears and doubts, she had considered undergoing IVF treatment. But then, nine months ago, while investigating the most important case of her career, she had become pregnant.

Amaia was happy, or at least thought she was, and that puzzled her even more. Until recently she had felt fulfilled, contented, self-assured in a way that she hadn’t for years; yet over the past few weeks, fresh fears, which were actually as old as time, had started creeping back, infiltrating her dreams, whispering familiar words she wished she didn’t recognise.

Another contraction, less painful but more drawn-out, gripped her. She checked her watch. Twenty minutes since the last one in the park.

She headed towards the restaurant where they had arranged to meet. Clarice didn’t approve of James cooking all the time, and kept hinting that they needed staff. Half-expecting to arrive home one day to find they had an English butler, she and James had decided they should lunch and dine out every day.

James had chosen a modern restaurant in the street next to Calle Mercaderes, where they lived. When she arrived, Clarice and the taciturn Thomas were both sipping martinis. James stood up as soon as he saw her.

‘Hi, Amaia, how are you, my love?’ he said, planting a kiss on her lips and pulling out a chair for her.

‘Fine,’ she said, wondering whether to mention the contractions. She glanced at Clarice and decided to keep quiet.

‘And the little one?’ James smiled, resting his hand on her belly.

‘The little one,’ repeated Clarice derisively. ‘Do you think it’s normal that a week before your daughter’s birth you still haven’t chosen a name for her?’

Amaia pretended to browse the menu while looking askance at James.

‘Oh, Mom, not that again. We like several, but we can’t decide, so we’re waiting until the baby arrives. The moment we see her little face we’ll know what to call her.’

‘Oh!’ Clarice perked up. ‘So, you have thought of some names. Is one of them Clarice, maybe?’ Amaia heaved a sigh. ‘Seriously, though what names are you thinking of?’ Clarice persisted.

Amaia glanced up from the menu as a fresh contraction gripped her belly for a few seconds. She looked at her watch again and smiled.

‘Actually, I’ve already chosen one,’ she lied, ‘only I want it to be a surprise. What I can tell you is that she won’t be called Clarice: I don’t like names repeated within families, I think each person should have their own identity.’

Clarice grimaced.

The baby’s name was another missile Clarice fired at her whenever she got the opportunity. James’s mother had harped on about it so much that he had even suggested they choose one just to shut her up. Amaia had snapped. That was the last straw: why should she be forced to choose a name simply to make Clarice happy?

‘Not to make her happy, Amaia, but because we have to call her something, and you don’t seem to want to think about choosing a name at all.’

As with the clothes, she knew they were right. Having researched the subject, she’d become so concerned about it that she consulted Aunt Engrasi.

‘Well, not having had babies myself, I can’t speak from personal experience, but at a clinical level, I gather it’s fairly common among first-time mothers and fathers in particular. Once you’ve had a baby, you know what to expect, there are no surprises, but with a first pregnancy some mothers, despite their swollen bellies, find it hard to relate the changes in their body to the realities of having a child. Nowadays with ultrasound and listening to the baby’s heartbeat, knowing if it’s a boy or a girl, expectant parents have more of a sense that their baby is real, whereas in the past you couldn’t see a baby until it was born; most people only realised they had a child when they were cradling it in their arms and gazing into its little face. Your misgivings are perfectly natural,’ she said, placing her hand on Amaia’s belly. ‘Believe me, no one is prepared for parenthood, although some people like to pretend that they are.’

Amaia ordered fish, which she hardly touched. She noticed that the contractions were less frequent and less intense when she was still.

As soon as they’d finished their meal, Clarice returned to the offensive.

‘Have you looked at crèches?’

‘No, Mom, we haven’t,’ said James, setting his cup down on the table and gazing at her wearily. ‘Because we’re not putting the baby in a crèche.’

‘I see, so you’ll find a child-minder when Amaia goes back to work.’

‘When Amaia goes back to work, I’ll look after my daughter myself.’

Clarice’s eyes opened wide. She looked to her husband for support, but received none from Thomas, who smiled and shook his head as he sipped his rooibos.

‘Clarice …’ he cautioned. These gentle repetitions of his wife’s name in a tone of reproach were the closest Thomas ever came to protesting.

She ignored him.

‘You can’t be serious. How are you going to look after her? You don’t know the first thing about babies.’

‘I’ll learn,’ James replied, smiling.

‘Learn? For goodness’ sake! You’re gonna need help.’

‘We have a cleaner who comes regularly.’

‘I’m not talking about a cleaner four hours a week, I’m talking about a nanny, a child-minder, someone who’ll take care of the child.’

‘I’ll take care of her. We’ll take care of her together, that’s what we have decided.’

James seemed amused, and, judging from his expression, so did Thomas. Clarice sighed, smiled wanly and adopted a calm tone, as though making a supreme effort to be reasonable and patient.

‘Yes, I know all about this modern parenting stuff – breastfeeding children until they grow teeth, having them sleep in your bed, dispensing with a nanny – but, son, you have to work too, your career is at a critical stage, and during the baby’s first year, you’ll scarcely have time to draw breath.’

‘I’ve just finished a forty-eight-piece collection for the exhibition at the Guggenheim next year, and I have enough works in reserve to enable me to devote myself to my daughter. Besides, Amaia isn’t always busy. Yes, she has periods of intense activity in her job, but she often comes home early.’

Amaia could feel her belly tense beneath her blouse, more painfully now. She breathed slowly, dissimulating as she glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes.

‘You look pale, Amaia, are you feeling OK?’

‘I’m tired. I think I’ll go home and lie down for a while.’

‘Good, Thomas and I are going shopping,’ announced Clarice, ‘otherwise you’ll be using vine leaves instead of baby blankets. Shall we meet back here for dinner?’

‘No,’ Amaia protested. ‘I’ll make something light at home, and try to rest. I was thinking of going shopping tomorrow; I found a store where they sell cute dresses.’

Clarice took the bait: the prospect of a shopping spree with her daughter-in-law instantly made her relax, and she beamed contentedly.

‘Oh, of course, my dear, we’ll have a wonderful time, you’ll see. I’ve seen so many gorgeous things since I came. You have a rest, dear,’ she said, making her way towards the exit.

Thomas stooped to give Amaia a peck before he left.

‘Well played,’ he whispered, winking at her.

Their house in Calle Mercaderes revealed none of its splendours from the outside: the tall ceilings, large windows, wood panelling, the wonderful mouldings that ornamented most of the rooms and the ground floor, which had once been an umbrella factory and where James now had his studio.

Amaia took a shower then stretched out on the sofa, pamphlet in one hand and watch in the other.

‘You look more tired today than usual. I noticed that during lunch you weren’t paying as much attention to my mother’s foolishness.’

Amaia grinned.

‘Is it because of something that happened at the courthouse? You mentioned that the trial had been adjourned, but you didn’t say why?’

‘Jasón Medina killed himself this morning in the courthouse toilets. It’ll be in all the papers tomorrow.’

‘Well,’ James shrugged. ‘I can’t say I’m sorry.’

‘Me neither. He’s no great loss, but I imagine the girl’s family must be a bit disappointed that he won’t be standing trial. On the other hand, they’ll be spared the ordeal of having to listen to all the gory details.’

James nodded thoughtfully.

Amaia considered telling him about the note Medina had left for her, but decided it would only upset him. She didn’t want to ruin this special moment by bringing that up.

‘But, yes, I am more tired today, and my mind is on other things.’

‘Such as?’ he asked.

‘At twelve thirty I started having contractions every twenty-five minutes. At first, they only lasted a few seconds, now they’re getting stronger and I’m having them every twelve minutes.’

‘Oh, Amaia, why didn’t you tell me before? Were you suffering all through lunch? Are they really painful?’

‘Not really,’ she said, smiling. ‘It’s more like an intense pressure, besides I didn’t want your mother going hysterical on me. I need a bit of calm now. I’ll rest and keep checking the frequency of the contractions. When I’m ready, we can go to the hospital.’

The skies above Pamplona were still overcast, and the distant twinkle of winter stars was barely visible.

James was asleep face down, sprawled over a larger area of the bed than he was entitled to, in that peaceful, relaxed way of his that Amaia had always envied. At first he had hesitated about going to bed at all, but she had persuaded him to rest while he could because she’d need him awake later on.

‘Are you sure you’ll be OK?’ he had insisted.

‘I’m sure, James. I only need to check the frequency of the contractions. When it’s time to go I’ll let you know.’

He had fallen asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow, and the house was silent save for his steady breathing and the soft rustle as she turned the pages of her book.

She broke off reading as she felt another contraction. Gasping, she clutched the arms of the rocking chair she’d been sitting in for the past hour, and waited for it to subside.

Frustrated, she put down the book without bothering to mark her page, realising that, although she’d read quite a lot, she hadn’t taken any of it in. In the past half-hour the contractions had grown more painful, almost making her cry out. Even so, she decided to wait a little longer. She leaned out of the window gazing down into the street, which was quite busy that Friday night, despite the cold, the occasional drizzle, and the fact that it was well past midnight.

She heard a noise in the hallway and went over to listen at the bedroom door.

It was her in-laws, returning after dinner and a stroll. She glanced at the soft glow coming from the reading lamp she had switched on and thought about turning it off, but there was no need; although Clarice meddled in virtually every area of their lives, she wouldn’t dare barge into their bedroom.

Continuing to check the increasing frequency of the contractions, she listened to the sounds in the house, to James’s parents going to bed, and how everything stopped, giving way to a silence troubled only by the creaks and whispers that inhabited the enormous building, as familiar to her as her own breath. She had nothing to worry about now; Thomas was a heavy sleeper, while Clarice took tablets every night, so she wouldn’t be awake before dawn.

The next contraction was truly terrible, and despite concentrating on breathing in and out the way she’d been taught in her prenatal classes, she felt as if she was wearing a steel corset that was squeezing her kidneys and lungs so tight it made her panic. What frightened her wasn’t so much giving birth, although she admitted feeling some trepidation about it, whilst being aware that this was perfectly normal. No, she knew that what frightened her was something far more profound and deep-seated, because this wasn’t the first time she had confronted fear. She had carried it around with her for years like an unwanted, invisible traveller that only appeared when she was at her lowest ebb.

Fear was an old vampire looming above her bed while she slept, hidden in the darkness, filling her dreams with terrifying shadows. Suddenly she remembered her grandmother Juanita’s word for it: gaueko: ‘the night visitor’. A visitor who retreated into the darkness whenever she succeeded in opening a breach in her own defences, a breach that let in the light of understanding, only to reveal the cruelty of the terrible events that had marked her life for ever, and which through sheer willpower she kept buried deep in her soul. The first step had been to comprehend, to identify the truth and to confront it. And yet, even in that instant of euphoria when she believed she had triumphed over her fear for the first time, she realised she hadn’t won the war, only a battle – a glorious one, but a battle all the same. From then on she had worked hard to keep that breach open, allowing the light that flooded in to strengthen her relationship with James, as well as the image of herself she had built up over the years. And as a postscript, this pregnancy, the little being growing inside her, brought her a feeling of serenity she could never before have imagined. Throughout her pregnancy she had felt amazing: no morning sickness, no discomfort, her sleep was restful and serene, free from nightmares or sudden jolts; she had so much energy during the day that she even surprised herself. The perfect pregnancy, until a week ago, the night that evil returned.

She had been going in to the police station every day as usual; they were investigating the case of a missing woman, whose partner was the chief suspect. For months the disappearance had been regarded as intentional, but her daughters’ insistence that their mother hadn’t left of her own accord had aroused Amaia’s interest, and she had reopened the investigation. Besides her two daughters and three grandchildren, the middle-aged woman was a catechist at her local church and paid daily visits to the care home where her elderly mother lived. Too many commitments for her to vanish without a word. They had established early on that suitcases, clothes, personal documents and money were missing from her house. Even so, when Amaia decided to take over the investigation, she insisted on going back there. Lucía Aguirre’s house was as neat and tidy as the photograph of its smiling owner, which had pride of place in the hallway. In the tiny sitting room, a piece of crochet lay on a coffee table covered with photographs of her grandchildren.

Amaia searched the kitchen and bathroom, which were spotlessly clean. In the master bedroom, the bed was made and there were few clothes in the wardrobe and chest of drawers. In the spare room were twin beds.

‘Jonan, do you notice something strange here?’

‘The bedcovers are different,’ said Deputy Inspector Etxaide.

‘We noticed that the first time around. The matching counterpane is in the wardrobe,’ explained the accompanying officer, checking his notes.

Amaia opened the wardrobe to find the blue counterpane matching one of those on the bed neatly folded in a see-through plastic pouch.

‘And didn’t it strike you as odd that this neat, house-proud woman wouldn’t take the trouble to use matching bedspreads, when she had them to hand?’

‘Why start changing bedspreads if she was planning to disappear?’ the officer said with a shrug.

‘Because we’re slaves to our nature. Did you know that some women from East Berlin mopped the floors of their houses before fleeing to West Germany? They were abandoning their country, but they didn’t want anyone saying they weren’t good housewives.’

Amaia pulled the bulky package out of the wardrobe and put it on one of the beds before unzipping it. The sharp odour of bleach permeated the room. With one gloved hand, she tugged at the edge of the counterpane, unfolding it to reveal a yellowish stain in the middle where the bleach had eaten away the colour.

‘You see, officer, it doesn’t fit,’ she said, turning towards the policeman, who nodded, speechless.

‘Our murderer has seen enough TV programmes about crime scene investigations to know that bleach gets rid of bloodstains, but he’s a terrible house husband because he didn’t take into account that it also removes the colour. Call in Forensics to do a blood search – this stain is enormous.’

After a thorough search by the forensic team, traces had been found, which, despite the attempted clean-up, revealed amounts of lost blood that would have resulted in loss of life: the human body contains five litres of blood; losing five hundred millilitres is sufficient to cause fainting, and the tests suggested more than two litres had been spilled. They had arrested the suspect the same day: a vain, cocky individual, his overly long hair streaked with grey, and his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. Amaia suppressed a laugh when she saw what he looked like from the adjoining room.

‘The return of El Macho,’ said Deputy Inspector Extaide. ‘Who’s going to question him?’

‘Inspector Fernández, they’ve been working on the case from the beginning …’

‘I assumed it would be us, now that this is a murder inquiry. If it hadn’t been for you, they’d still be waiting for her to send a postcard from Cancún.’

‘It’s a matter of courtesy, Jonan. Besides, I can’t interrogate suspects in this state,’ she said, pointing to her belly.

Inspector Fernández entered the interview room and Jonan switched on the recorder.

‘Good morning, Mr Quiralte. My name’s Detective Inspector Fer—’

‘Wait a minute,’ interrupted Quiralte. He raised his cuffed hands, accompanying the gesture with a flick of his hair worthy of a diva in a celebrity magazine. ‘Don’t I get to be interrogated by the star cop?’

‘Who do you mean?’

‘You know, that inspector woman from the FBI?’

‘How do you know about that?’ asked Fernández, taken aback. Amaia clicked her tongue in annoyance. Quiralte smirked.

‘Because I’m smarter than you.’

Fernández looked nervous. He had little experience interrogating murderers, and the suspect had already succeeded in unsettling him.

‘Don’t let him get the upper hand,’ muttered Amaia.

As if he could hear her, Fernández took control of the interview.

‘Why do you want her to interrogate you?’

‘Because they tell me she’s hot, and I’d rather be questioned by a pretty woman inspector than by you any day,’ he said, settling back in his chair.

‘Well, you’ll have to make do with me. The inspector you are referring to is on leave.’

Sneering, Quiralte turned towards the two-way mirror as if he could see through it.

‘Well, that’s a shame, I’ll just have to wait until she gets back.’

‘You don’t intend to give a statement?’

‘Of course I do.’ He was clearly enjoying himself. ‘Don’t pull that face, if the star cop isn’t here, take me before the judge and I’ll tell him I killed that stupid cow.’

And that was precisely what he did. He confessed straight away, only to remind the magistrate impudently that without a body there was no crime, and that for the moment he had no intention of telling them where it was. One of the youngest magistrates on the circuit, Judge Markina’s chiselled looks and stonewashed jeans occasionally fooled some felons into giving too much away, as had been the case with Quiralte. He gave the man one of those dazzling smiles that wrought havoc among the female clerks, before ordering his detention.

‘So, no body, eh, Mr Quiralte? Well, then we’ll just have to wait until it appears. I’m afraid you’ve been watching too many American movies. The fact of admitting that you know where the body is while refusing to divulge this information is reason enough to detain you indefinitely. Moreover you’ve confessed to a murder. A spell in jail might refresh your memory. I’ll talk to you again when you have something to tell me. Until then …’

Amaia had walked home, trying to thrust the details of the case from her mind, as an exercise in self-control but also to get herself in the mood for celebrating her final day at work with James. The baby was due in two weeks’ time, and although she felt perfectly capable of working right up until the last moment, James had persuaded her to take some annual leave because his parents were due to arrive the following day. After dinner, she had fallen into bed, exhausted, and gone to sleep without realising it. All she remembered was that one minute she was talking to James and then, nothing.

She heard the woman first, before she saw her. She was shivering with cold; the sound of her teeth chattering bone against bone was so loud it caused Amaia to open her eyes. Lucía Aguirre was wearing the same red-and-white knitted sweater as in the photograph in her hallway, a gold crucifix round her neck, short fair hair, no doubt dyed to mask the grey. Nothing else about her appearance resembled the cheerful, self-possessed woman who was smiling at the camera. Lucía Aguirre wasn’t weeping, wailing or sobbing, yet there was a deep, distressing pain in her blue eyes that gave her face an air of profound bewilderment, as if she understood nothing, as if she couldn’t accept what was happening to her. She stood quietly, disoriented, rocked by a relentless wind that seemed to blow from every direction and made her sway rhythmically, adding to her air of helplessness. Her left arm was clasped about her waist, in a self-protective gesture that afforded her little comfort, and every now and then her eyes would cast about like searching probes, until they met Amaia’s gaze. She opened her mouth, surprised, like a little girl on her birthday, before starting to speak. Amaia watched the woman’s lips, blue with cold, but no sound emerged. She sat up in bed, concentrating as hard as she could, trying to understand what the woman was saying, but she was far away and the deafening wind carried off the muted sounds emerging from her lips, intoning over and over words that Amaia couldn’t hear. She woke up in a daze, infected by the woman’s anguish, and her own increasing sense of despair. This dream, this phantom-like apparition, had shattered her state of grace, the freedom from fear she had enjoyed since conceiving her daughter, a time of peace when all the nightmares, the gauekos, the ghosts had been exiled to another world.

Some years earlier, in New Orleans, sitting one evening with a cold beer in a bar on St Louis Street, a jovial agent from the FBI had asked her:

‘So, tell me, Inspector Salazar, do murder victims appear at the foot of your bed during the night?’

Amaia’s eyes had gaped in astonishment.

‘Don’t try to fool me, Salazar; I can tell a police officer who sees ghosts from one who doesn’t.’

Amaia stared at him in silence, trying to decide whether he was joking or not, but the agent went on talking, an inscrutable smile playing on his lips.

‘I know, because they’ve been doing the same to me for years.’

Amaia smiled, but Special Agent Aloisius Dupree looked her straight in the eye and she knew he was serious.

‘You mean …’

‘I mean, Inspector, waking up in the middle of the night and seeing the victim of the crime you are investigating standing beside your bed.’ Dupree’s smile had vanished.

She gazed at him uneasily.

‘Don’t let me down, Salazar. Are you going to tell me you don’t see ghosts? I’d be disappointed.’

She was alarmed, but not enough to run the risk of looking like a fool.

‘Agent Dupree, ghosts don’t exist,’ she said, raising her glass in a silent toast.

‘Of course they don’t, Inspector, but if I’m not mistaken – and I’m not – more than once you’ve awoken in the middle of the night having sensed the presence of one of those lost victims at the foot of your bed. Am I mistaken?’

Amaia took a sip of beer, determined not to tell him anything, but inviting him to go on.

‘You shouldn’t feel ashamed, Inspector … Would you prefer me to say that you “dream” about your victims?’

Amaia sighed. ‘I’m afraid that sounds just as disturbing, dubious and deranged.’

‘Aye, there’s the rub, Inspector: labelling it as deranged.’

‘Explain that to the FBI shrink or his equivalent in the Navarre police,’ she retorted.

‘Oh, come on, Salazar! Neither of us would be foolish enough to expose ourselves to the scrutiny of a shrink when we both know this is something he or she would be incapable of understanding. Most people would think that a cop who has nightmares about a case is at the very least stressed out or, at worst, if you push me, emotionally over-involved.’

He paused, draining the dregs of his glass then raised his arm to order another two beers. Amaia was about to protest, but the stifling New Orleans heat, the soft tones of a piano whose keys someone was stroking at the far end of the room, and an old timepiece stopped at ten o’clock which took pride of place above the bar, made her change her mind. Dupree waited until the barman had set down two fresh glasses in front of them.

‘The first few times it scares the pants off you, to the point where you think you’re starting to go crazy. But that’s not true, Salazar. On the contrary, a good homicide detective doesn’t possess a simple mind, or simple thought processes. We spend hours trying to figure out how a murderer’s mind works, how he thinks, what he wants, how he feels. Next, we go to the morgue, where we view his work, hoping the body will tell us why, because once we know the killer’s motive, we have a chance of catching him. But in the majority of cases the body isn’t enough, because a dead body is just a broken shell. For too long perhaps, criminal investigations have been more focused on understanding the mind of the criminal than that of the victim. For years, murder victims have been seen as little more than the end products of a sinister process, but at last victimology is coming into its own, showing that the choice of victim is never random, even when it’s made to appear so, that too can provide clues. In dreaming about victims, we are accessing images projected by our subconscious, but that doesn’t make them any less significant. It’s simply another form of thought-processing. For a while those apparitions of victims by my bed tormented me. I used to wake up drenched in sweat, terrified and anxious. I’d feel that way for hours, while I tried to figure out to what extent I was losing my mind. I was a rookie agent back then, partnered with a veteran. Once, during a long, tedious stakeout, I woke up suddenly in the middle of one of those nightmares. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” my partner said. I froze. “Maybe I did,” I replied. “So, you see ghosts too?” he said. “Well, next time you should pay more attention to what they say instead of hollering and trying to resist.” That was good advice. Over the years, I’ve learned that when I dream about a victim, part of my brain is projecting information which is already there, but which I haven’t been able to see.’

Amaia nodded slowly. ‘So, are they ghosts or projections inside the investigator’s mind?’

‘Projections, of course. Although …’

‘Although what?’

Agent Dupree didn’t reply. He raised his glass and drank.

She roused James, trying not to alarm him. He sat up in bed with a start, rubbing his eyes.

‘Is it time to go to the hospital?’

Amaia bobbed her head, her face pallid as she gave a weak smile.

James pulled on the pair of jeans and jumper that he had laid out in readiness on the end of the bed.

‘Call my aunt, will you? I promised I’d let her know.’

‘Are my parents home yet?’

‘Yes, but please don’t tell them, James. It’s two in the morning. I’m not going to give birth straight away. Besides, they probably won’t be allowed in. I don’t want them to have to sit for hours in the waiting room.’

‘So, it’s OK to tell your auntie, but not my parents?’

‘James, you know perfectly well that Aunt Engrasi won’t come here, she hasn’t left the valley in years. I promised I’d tell her when the time came, that’s all.’

Dr Villa was about fifty, with prematurely grey hair that she wore in a bob, which fell across her face whenever she leant forward. Recognising Amaia, she approached the side of her bed.

‘Well, Amaia, we have some good news and some not-so-good news.’

Amaia waited for her to continue, reaching out for James, who clasped her hand between his.

‘The good news is that you’re now in labour, the baby is fine, the umbilical cord is not wrapped round her, her heartbeat is nice and strong even during the contractions. The not-so-good news is that, despite the length of time you’ve been having contractions, your labour isn’t very advanced. There’s some dilation, but the baby isn’t properly positioned in the birth canal. What most concerns me though is that you look tired. Have you been sleeping well?’

‘No, not too well these past few days.’

This was an understatement. Since the nightmares had returned, Amaia had been sleeping on and off for a few minutes before drifting into a semiconscious state from which she would awake exhausted and irritable.

‘We’re going to keep you in, Amaia, but I don’t want you to lie down. I need you to walk – it will help the baby’s head engage. When you feel a contraction coming, try to squat; that will ease your discomfort and help you dilate.’

She gave a subdued sigh.

‘I know you’re tired,’ Dr Villa went on, ‘but it won’t be long now. This is when your daughter needs your help.’

Amaia nodded.

For the next two hours she made herself pace up and down the hospital corridor, which was empty at this hour of the morning. By her side, James seemed completely lost, distraught at how impotent he felt watching her suffer without being able to do anything.

For the first few minutes, he had kept asking if she was all right, whether he could help, or did she want him to bring her something, anything. She scarcely replied, intent upon keeping a degree of control over her body, which no longer felt like it belonged to her. This strong, healthy body that had always given her a secret feeling of pleasant self-assurance, was now no more than a mound of aching flesh. She almost laughed at the absurdity of her long-held belief that she had a high pain threshold.

In the end, James had given up and decided to remain silent. She was relieved. She had been making a superhuman effort not tell him to go to hell each time he asked her if it was hurting. Pain produced a visceral anger in her, which, coupled with her exhaustion and lack of sleep, was beginning to cloud her mind, until the only thought she could focus on was: I just want this to be over.

Dr Villa threw away her gloves, satisfied.

‘Good work, Amaia, you need to dilate a little more, but the baby is in position, so it’s all a matter of contractions and time.’

‘How long?’ she asked, anxiously.

‘As a first-time mother, it could take minutes or hours, but you can lie down now – you’ll be more comfortable. We’ll monitor you and prepare you for labour.’

The moment Amaia lay down, sleep overwhelmed her like a heavy stone slab closing eyes she could no longer keep open.

‘Amaia, Amaia, wake up.’

Opening her eyes, she saw her sister Rosaura aged ten, hair dishevelled, wearing a pink nightie.

‘It’s nearly morning, Amaia, go to bed. If Ama finds you here she’ll scold us both.’

Clumsily drawing back the blankets, Amaia placed her small five-year-old feet on the cold floor. She managed to open her eyes enough to make out the pale shape of her own bed amid the shadows, the bed she didn’t want to sleep in, because if she did, she would come in the night, to watch her with those cold black eyes, her mouth twisted in a grimace of loathing. Even without opening her eyes, Amaia could see her with absolute clarity, sensing the stifled hatred in her measured breath as she watched her feigning sleep, well aware that she was awake. Then, just when she felt herself weakening, when her muscles started to go stiff from the pent-up tension, when her tiny bladder threatened to empty its contents between her legs, eyes shut tight, she would become aware of her mother leaning slowly over her strained face, and a prayer, like an incantation, would echo in her head, over and over, preventing her even in those moments of darkest dread from falling into the temptation to disobey the command.

Don’topenyoureyesdon’topenyoureyesdon’topenyoureyesdon’topenyoureyesdon’topenyoureyes.

She wouldn’t open them, yet even with them closed she could sense the slow advance, the precision of her mother’s approach, the icy smile forming on her lips as she whispered:

‘Sleep, little bitch. Ama won’t eat you today.’

Amaia knew she wouldn’t come near if she slept with her sisters. Which was why, every night, when her parents went to bed, she would plead with her sisters, promise to do anything for them if only they would let her sleep in their bed. Flora seldom indulged her, or only in exchange for her servitude the following day, whereas Rosaura would relent when she saw Amaia cry; crying was easy when you were scared out of your wits.

She groped her way across the darkened room, vaguely aware of the outline of the bed, which seemed to recede even as the ground softened beneath her feet, and the smell of floor polish changed into a different, more pungent, earthy odour of dank forest floor. She threaded her way through the trees, protected as if by ancient columns, as she heard nearby the babbling waters of the River Baztán flowing freely. Approaching its stony banks, she whispered: the river. And her voice became an echo that bounced off the age-old rock framing the river’s path. The river, she whispered once again.

And then she saw the body. A young girl of about fifteen lay dead on the rounded pebbles of the riverbank. Eyes staring into infinity, hair spread in two perfect tresses on either side of her head, hands like claws in a parody of offering, palms turned upwards, showing the void.

‘No,’ cried Amaia.

And as she glanced about her, she saw not one but dozens of bodies ranged on either side of the river, like the macabre blossoms of some infernal spring.

‘No,’ she repeated, in a voice that was now a plea.

The hands of the corpses rose up as one, their fingers pointing at her belly.

A shudder brought her halfway back to consciousness for as long as the contraction lasted … then she was back beside the river.

The bodies were immobile again, but a strong breeze that seemed to be coming from the river itself tousled their locks, lifting them into the air like kite strings, while it whipped the limpid surface of the water into white, frothy swirls. Above the roaring wind, Amaia could hear the sobs of the little girl, who was her, mingling with others that seemed to come from the corpses. Drawing closer, she saw that this was true. The girls were weeping profusely, their tears leaving silvery tracks on their cheeks that glinted in the moonlight.

The suffering of those souls tore at her little girl’s heart.

‘There’s nothing I can do,’ she cried helplessly.

The wind suddenly died down, and the riverbed was plunged into an impossible silence. Then came a watery, rhythmic, tap-tapping.

Splash, splash, splash …

Like slow rhythmic applause from the river. Splash, splash, splash.

Like when she would run through the puddles left by the rain. After the first sounds, more followed.

Splash, splash, splash, splash, splash …

And more. Splash, splash, splash … and yet more, until it was like a hailstorm, or as if the river water were boiling.

‘There’s nothing I can do,’ she cried again, wild with fear.

‘Cleanse the river,’ shouted a voice.

‘The river.’

‘The river.’

‘The river.’ Other voices echoed.

She tried desperately to find the source of the voices clamouring from the waters.

The clouds parted over Baztán, and the silvery moonlight seeped through once more, illuminating the maidens who sat on the overhanging rocks, tapping their webbed feet on the water’s surface, long tresses swaying, their furious incantation rising from red, full-lipped mouths filled with needle-sharp teeth.

‘Cleanse the river.’

‘Cleanse the river.’

‘The river, the river, the river.’

‘Amaia, Amaia, wake up!’ The midwife’s strident voice brought her back to reality. ‘Come on, Amaia, the baby is here. Now it’s your turn.’

But Amaia couldn’t hear, for above the midwife’s voice, the maidens’ clamour still filled her ears.

‘I can’t,’ she cried.

But it was no use; they didn’t listen, only commanded.

‘Cleanse the river, cleanse the valley, wash away the crime …’ they cried, their voices merging with the cry issuing from her own throat as she felt the stabbing pain of another contraction.

‘Amaia, I need you here,’ said the midwife. ‘When the next one comes, you have to push, and depending how hard you push you can do this in two or in ten contractions. It’s up to you, two or ten.’

Amaia grasped the bars to heave herself up, while James stood behind, supporting her, silent and nervous, but reliable.

‘Excellent,’ the midwife said encouragingly. ‘Are you ready?’

Amaia nodded.

‘Right, here comes another,’ she said, her eye on the monitor. ‘Push, my dear.’

She pressed down as hard as she could, holding her breath as she felt something tear inside her.

‘It’s finished. Well done, Amaia, very good. Except that you need to breathe, for your sake and that of your baby. Next time, breathe – believe me, it’ll be over much more quickly.’

Amaia agreed obediently, while James wiped the sweat from her face.

‘Good, here comes another. Push, Amaia, let’s finish this, help your baby, bring her out.’

Two or ten, two or ten, a voice inside her head repeated.

‘Not ten,’ she whispered.

Concentrating on her breathing, she kept pushing until she felt as if her soul were draining out of her, and an overwhelming sensation of emptiness seized her entire body.

Perhaps I’m bleeding to death, she thought. And she reflected that, if she were, she wouldn’t care, because to bleed was peaceful and sweet. She had never bled like this, but Agent Dupree had nearly died from a bullet in the chest; he had told her that, although being shot was agonising, to bleed felt peaceful and sweet, like turning into oil and trickling away. And the more you bled, the less you cared.

Then she heard the wail. Strong and powerful, a genuine statement of intent.

‘Oh my goodness, what a beautiful boy!’ the nurse exclaimed.

‘And he’s blond, like you,’ added the midwife.

Amaia turned to look at James, who was as bewildered as she was.

‘A boy?’ she said.

The nurse’s voice reached them from the side of the room.

‘Yes, indeed, a boy who weighs 3.2 kilos and is pretty as a picture.’

‘But … they told us it was a girl,’ stammered Amaia.

‘Well, they were wrong. It happens occasionally, but usually the other way round, girls who look like boys because of where the umbilical cord is.’

‘Are you sure?’ insisted James, who was still supporting Amaia from behind.

Amaia felt the warmth of the tiny body the nurse had just placed on top of her, wrapped in a towel and wriggling vigorously.

‘A boy, no doubt about it,’ said the nurse, raising the towel to reveal the baby’s naked body.

Amaia was in shock.

Her son’s little face twisted in exaggerated grimaces; he was squirming as though searching for something. Raising a tiny fist to his mouth, he sucked at it hard, then half-opened his eyes and stared.

‘Oh my God, James, it’s a boy,’ she managed to say.

Her husband reached out and stroked the infant’s soft cheek with his fingers.

‘He’s beautiful, Amaia …’ he said with a catch in his voice, as he leaned over to kiss her. The tears ran down his face and his lips tasted salty.

‘Well done, my darling.’

‘Well done to you, too, Aita,’ she said, gazing at the baby, who appeared fascinated by the overhead lights, eyes wide open.

‘You really had no idea it was a boy?’ the midwife asked, surprised. ‘I was sure you did, because you kept repeating his name during the birth. Ibai, Ibai. Is that what you’re going to call him?’

‘Ibai … the river,’ whispered Amaia.

She gazed at James, who was beaming, then at her son.

‘Yes, yes!’ she declared. ‘Ibai, that’s his name.’ And then she burst out laughing.

James looked at her, grinning at her contentment.

‘Why are you laughing?’

She was giggling uncontrollably and couldn’t stop.

‘I’m … I’m imagining your mother’s face when she finds out she has to take everything back.’