The Legacy of the Bones

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.

6 (#ulink_92f70875-98b3-597e-8b39-2d9f32b4f081)

She had spent longer than usual saying goodbye to Ibai. Holding the baby in her arms, she had dawdled, pacing from room to room, whispering sweet nothings in his ear while putting off getting dressed and leaving for work. And now, an hour later, she couldn’t shrug off the imprint of his fragile little body in her arms. She yearned for him in a way that was almost painful; she had never missed anyone like that before. His smell, his touch enchanted her, arousing in her feelings so rooted in her being they felt like memories. She thought of the soft curve of his cheek, his clear eyes – the same blue as hers – and the way he gazed at her, studying her face as if, inside him, instead of a child, there was the serene spirit of a sage.

Jonan held out a mug of milky coffee, which Amaia took from him, cupping it in her hand in an easy gesture that had become part of her routine, but which today gave her no comfort.

‘Did Ibai give you a hard night?’ he asked, noticing the dark rings around her eyes.

‘No. Well, sort of …’ she said, evasively.

Jonan had worked with Inspector Salazar long enough to know that her silences spoke volumes.

‘I have that information you asked me for yesterday,’ he said, his gaze wandering back to his desk. She seemed puzzled for an instant.

‘Oh, yes. That was quick.’

‘I said it wouldn’t be a problem.’

‘Read it to me,’ she said, inviting him to talk while she sat next to him at the desk, sipping her coffee.

He opened the document on his computer and began reading out loud.

‘Tarttalo, also known as tártaro and torto, is a mythological creature from the Basque region of Navarre, a one-eyed giant, exceptionally strong and aggressive, that feeds on sheep, young girls and shepherds, although in some references the tarttalo is portrayed as a shepherd with its own flock, but in any event, always as a devourer of Christians. There are similar references to Cyclops all over Europe, in Ancient Greece and Rome. They figure prominently in the Basque Country, among the ancient tribe of the Vascones, although accounts of them were recorded well into the twentieth century. They are solitary creatures that dwell in caves, whose locations may vary according to the area, but not in such remote places as the goddess-genie Mari. Instead they prefer to stay close to the valleys, where they can stockpile enough food to satisfy their voracious appetite for blood. They are distinguished by a single eye in the centre of the forehead, and, of course, bones, mounds of them stacked outside their cave entrances, the fruits of their depravity. I’m attaching a couple of popular tales about their encounters with shepherds, more than one of whom was gobbled up. And here’s one about a Cyclops that drowned in a well after being blinded by a shepherd – you’re going to love this:

‘In Zegama, the tarttalo was a hideous one-eyed ogre who lived in a place called Tartaloetxeta (“tarttalo’s house”), near Mount Sadar. From there he roamed the nearby valleys and mountains, stealing sheep and men that he would roast and then eat.