The Legacy of the Bones

‘Historians disagree about where the agotes came from originally. They were thought to have crossed the Pyrenees into Navarre during the Middle Ages, fleeing war, famine, plague and religious persecution. The most widely accepted theory is that they were Cathars, members of a religious sect persecuted by the Inquisition. Another theory suggests they were deserters from the Visigoth armies who sought refuge in the leprosy colonies of southern France and became infected with the disease themselves – one of the reasons why they were so feared. A third explanation is that they were bandits and social outcasts, forced into serfdom by the feudal lord of the area, who at that time was Pedro de Ursua. The remains of one of his fortresses still exist to this day in Arizkun. And that would explain why most of the agotes lived in Bozate.’

‘Yes, that’s more or less what I thought: a group of social outcasts, lepers or fleeing Cathars who settled in the valley in medieval times. But what does this have to do with the desecration of the church in Arizkun?’

‘A great deal. The agotes lived in Bozate for centuries and were never allowed to integrate into society. Treated as second-class citizens, they were prohibited from settling outside Bozate, running businesses or marrying outside their group. As artisans they worked with wood and hides, because those trades were seen as dirty and dangerous. They were obliged to wear identifying markings sewn into their clothes, even to ring a bell, like lepers, to warn passers-by of their presence. And, in common with many periods throughout history, the Church, far from encouraging their integration, did the exact opposite. We know they were Christians and observed and respected Catholic rites, yet the Church treated them like pariahs. They had a separate baptismal font, and the holy water they used was thrown away. They were forbidden from approaching the altar, often forced to remain at the back of the nave and to enter the church through a different, smaller door. In Arizkun, they were kept apart from the other parishioners by a grille, which was later removed in recognition of the deep shame the recollection of this treatment arouses in the people of Arizkun even to this day.’

‘Let’s see if I’ve got this right. You’re telling me that the exclusion of a racial group in the Middle Ages is the historical misunderstanding Father Sarasola referred to in his attempt to explain the current desecration of the church in Arizkun?’

‘Yes.’ Jonan nodded.

‘The same exclusion suffered by Jews, Moors, Gypsies, women, witch doctors, the poor, etc. If as you say, on top of everything else, they were suspected of spreading leprosy, then it’s hardly surprising they were excluded. The mere mention of that dread disease must have been enough to strike terror into the hearts of the entire population. I know that dozens of women in the Baztán Valley were accused of witchcraft and burnt at the stake, many of them denounced by their neighbours – and those were women who’d been born and bred in the valley. Anything that deviated from the norm was thought to be the work of the devil, for which countless minorities and ethnic groups throughout Europe suffered as a consequence. No country’s history is free of such episodes. I’m no historian, Jonan, but I know that during the Middle Ages the whole of Europe reeked of human flesh, burnt at the stake.’

‘That’s right, but the agotes were excluded for centuries. Generation after generation were deprived of the most basic rights; in fact, they suffered such ill treatment for so long that a papal decree was issued in Rome granting them equal rights and demanding the cessation of all discrimination. But the evil had already been done; tradition and belief are stubbornly resistant to logic and reason, thus the agotes continued to be subjected to discrimination for many years.’

‘Yes, things take a long time to change in the Baztán Valley. It feels like a privilege to live there now, but life must have been tough back then. Even so …’

‘Chief, the desecrated objects are clear references to the exclusion of the agotes: the baptismal font they couldn’t be baptised in; a pew at the front of the church, reserved for nobles and off limits to the agotes. The cloth on the altar they were forbidden to approach—’

‘What about the bones? The mairu-beso?’

‘That’s an old piece of witchcraft, also associated with the agotes.’

‘Yes, of course, witchcraft … In any case, it sounds far-fetched to me. I won’t deny that this matter of the bones sets the latest incident apart, but the previous acts were sheer vandalism. You’ll see, in a few days’ time, we’ll arrest a couple of stoned teenagers who broke into the church as a prank, and things got out of hand. What intrigues me is that even the Archbishop is taking an interest in this.’

‘That’s the point. If anyone can and should recognise a crime with a historical motive, it’s the Church. You saw the look on the parish priest’s face: he was beside himself.’

Amaia sighed, irritably.

‘You could be right, but you know how much I hate all this stuff about the valley’s dark past. There always seems to be somebody eager to exploit it,’ she said, glancing at her watch.

‘We’ve got plenty of time,’ Jonan reassured her.

‘Not really – I have to stop off at my place first, Ibai needs his feed,’ she said with a smile.

5 (#u68b5cde6-8bc1-5c6c-b39f-c381c5222a9f)

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.’