Offering to the Storm

Amaia studied him in silence for a few seconds, then went on:

‘I have no doubt that you’re clever. Clever, confident and capable; you had to be, to succeed in making those poor wretches perpetrate your crimes for you.’

He smiled openly for the first time.

‘You’re mistaken, Inspector; my intention was never for them to sign my work, but rather to perform it. I see myself as a sort of stage director,’ he explained.

‘Yes, with an ego the size of Pamplona … Which is why, to my mind, something doesn’t add up. Perhaps you can explain: why would a man like you, a man with a powerful, brilliant mind, end up obeying the orders of a senile old woman?’

‘That isn’t what happened.’

‘Isn’t it? I’ve seen the CCTV images from the clinic. You looked quite submissive to me.’

She had used the word ‘submissive’ on purpose, knowing he would see it as the worst sort of insult. Berasategui placed his fingers over his pursed lips as if to prevent himself rising to the bait.

‘So, a mentally ill old woman convinces an eminent psychiatrist from a prestigious clinic, a brilliant – what did you refer to yourself as? – ah yes, stage director, to be her accomplice in a botched escape attempt, which ends in her being swept away by the river, while he’s arrested and imprisoned. You must admit – not exactly your finest moment.’

‘You couldn’t be more mistaken,’ he scoffed. ‘Everything turned out exactly as planned.’

‘Everything?’

‘Except for the surprise of the child’s gender; but I played no part in that. Otherwise I would have known.’

Berasategui appeared to have regained his habitual composure. Amaia smiled.

‘I visited your father yesterday.’

Berasategui filled his lungs then exhaled slowly. Clearly this bothered him.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me about him? Aren’t you interested to know how he is? No, of course you aren’t. He’s just an old man whom you used to locate the mairus in my family’s burial plot.’

Berasategui remained impassive.

‘Some of the bones left in the church were more recent. That oaf Garrido would never have been able to find them; only someone who had contact with Rosario could have known, because she alone had that information. Where are the remains of that body, Dr Berasategui? Where is that grave?’

He cocked his head to one side, adopting a faintly smug expression, as though amused at all this.

It vanished when Amaia continued:

‘Your father was much more talkative than you. He told me you never spent the night with him, he said you went to a hotel, but we’ve checked, and we know that isn’t true. I’m going to tell you what I think. I think you have another house in Baztán, a safe house, a place where you keep the things no one must see, the things you can’t give up. The place where you took my mother that night, where she changed her clothes and no doubt where she returned when she ran off leaving you in the cave.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I’m referring to the fact that Rosario didn’t change at your father’s house, or in your car. The fact that there’s a period of time unaccounted for between you leaving the hospital and stopping off at my aunt’s house. While we were busy rooting around among the souvenirs in your apartment, you stopped off somewhere else. Do you expect me to believe that a man like you wouldn’t have covered such a contingency? Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending to make me believe you acted like a blundering fool …’

This time Berasategui covered his mouth with both hands to stifle the urge to respond.

‘Where’s the house? Where did you take Rosario? She’s alive, isn’t she?’

‘What do you think?’ he blurted unexpectedly.

‘I believe you devised an escape plan, and that she followed it.’

‘I like you, Inspector. You’re an intelligent woman – you have to be, to appreciate other people’s intelligence. And you’re right, there are things I miss in here – for example, holding an interesting conversation with someone who has an IQ above 85,’ he said, gesturing disdainfully towards the guards at the door. ‘And for that reason alone, I’m going to make you a gift.’ He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. Amaia remained calm, although she was surprised when the guards made no effort to restrain him. ‘Listen carefully, Inspector, because this is a message from your mother.’

This time she recoiled, but it was too late, she could already smell Berasategui’s shaving lotion. He gripped her tightly about the throat as she felt his lips brush her ear: ‘Sleep with one eye open, little bitch, because sooner or later Ama is coming to eat you.’ Amaia grabbed his wrist, forcing him to release her, then stumbled backwards, knocking over her chair. Berasategui leaned back, rubbing his wrist.

‘Don’t kill the messenger, Inspector,’ he said with a grin.

She continued to back away until she reached the door, looking with alarm at the guards, who remained impassive.

‘Open the door!’

The two men stood staring at her in silence.

‘Are you deaf? Open the door. The prisoner has assaulted me!’

Seized with panic, she approached the man nearest to her, spitting her words so close to his face that her saliva landed on his cheek:

‘Open the door, you sonofabitch! Open the door, or I swear I’ll …’ The guard ignored her, looking towards Berasategui, who with a condescending nod gave his permission. The guards opened the door, smiling at Amaia as she went out.

8 (#ulink_8876d353-ec42-5f20-8883-cb3cd63bbea2)

She hurried along the corridor, fighting the impulse to break into a run, acknowledged the guard manning the next security gate, and continued to the main entrance, where she had recognised one of the guards when she arrived. Still, she waited to retrieve her bag and gun before asking to see the prison governor.

‘He’s not here. He’s in Barcelona, at a conference on prison security, but you can speak to his deputy if you want,’ said the man, reaching for the phone.

Amaia reflected for an instant.

‘No, don’t bother. It’s not important.’

She climbed into her car and took out her mobile, glancing suspiciously at the CCTV cameras dotted about the prison. She put the phone down and drove off, found a parking space several streets away, then dialled a number she had never used before.

Judge Markina’s calm voice answered at the other end of the line.

‘Inspector, this is the first time you’ve ever called me on this—’

‘This is official business, your honour. I’ve just left the prison in Pamplona after interviewing Berasategui …’ Conscious of the tremor in her voice, she broke off and took a deep breath to compose herself.

‘Berasategui? Why didn’t you tell me you were going to see him?’

‘I’m sorry, your honour, this was an informal visit, I wanted to ask him about … Rosario.’

She heard him click his tongue in disapproval.

‘All the information we have points to him and Rosario stopping off somewhere that night, at a safe house where she was able to change her clothes, somewhere they could hide in case things didn’t go according to plan … I refuse to believe that a man as organised as Berasategui wouldn’t have factored in a contingency like that.’

Markina was silent at the other end of the line.