Offering to the Storm

‘Yes, it’s more noticeable now. Perhaps the cologne Berasategui doused himself in masked it. A vain fellow indeed.’

Amaia examined the body as she listened to San Martín. The ‘Y’ incision started at the shoulders, travelling down the chest to the pelvis, laying bare the glistening insides, whose vivid colours had always fascinated her. On this occasion, San Martín and his team had forced open the ribcage to extract and weigh the internal organs, doubtless interested to see the effects of a powerful sedative on a healthy young male. The startlingly white ribs pointed up towards the ceiling. The denuded bones had a surreal look, like the frame of a boat, or a dead whale’s skeleton, or the long, eerie fingers of some inner creature trying to climb out of his dead body. No other surgical procedure quite resembled an autopsy; the only word that came close to describing it was wondrous. She understood the fascination it held for Ripper-type murderers, many of whom were skilled at making precise incisions at exactly the right depth to enable them to extract the organs in a particular order without damaging them.

Amaia observed the assistants and medical students, listening attentively to San Martín, as he pointed to the different sections of the liver, explaining how it had stopped functioning. By then, Berasategui was almost certainly unconscious. He had sought a dignified, painless death, but even he couldn’t avoid the procedure, which, he knew would inevitably follow. Berasategui hadn’t wanted to die, he had certainly never considered taking his own life. A narcissist like him would only have accepted suicide if he were forced to relinquish the control he exercised over others. And yet she had seen for herself how he had surmounted that obstacle in prison. He’d done what he did, against his own will, and that constituted a discrepancy, an abnormal element, which Amaia couldn’t ignore. Berasategui had wept over his own suicide like a condemned man forced to walk a green mile from which there was no return.

Turning to share her thoughts with Jonan, she saw that he was standing back, behind the students gathered around San Martín. Arms folded, he was gazing at the nightmarish vision of the wet, naked corpse splayed open on a table, ribs exposed to the air.

‘Come closer, Deputy Inspector Etxaide, I’ve been saving the stomach until last … I thought you’d be interested to see the contents, although there’s no doubt he swallowed the sedative.’

One of the assistants placed a strainer over a beaker, and then, tilting the stomach, which San Martín had clamped at one end, she emptied the viscid, yellow contents into the receptacle. The stench of vomit mixed with the tranquiliser was nauseating. Amaia looked on as Jonan retched, and the students exchanged knowing looks.

‘Here we see traces of sedative,’ said San Martín, ‘indicating that he reduced his food and liquid intake in order to absorb the drug more rapidly. The contact of the drug with the mucous membrane stimulated the production of stomach acid. It would be interesting to dissect the intestine, trachea and oesophagus to see how it affected those organs.’

The suggestion was greeted with general enthusiasm except by Amaia.

‘We’d love to stay, Doctor, but have to get back to Elizondo. If you’d be so kind as to give us the name of the sedative as soon as possible; we already know one of the guards supplied him with it, and probably also removed the empty phial. Having the name would help us find out how he got hold of it and whether he acted alone.’

Jonan was visibly relieved at the news. After saying goodbye to San Martín, he walked ahead of her towards the exit, trying not to touch anything. Amaia followed, amused at his behaviour.

‘Hold on a moment.’ San Martín handed over the reins to one of his assistants, and, tossing his gloves into a waste bin, plucked an envelope from his pigeonhole. ‘The test results of the decaying matter on the toy bear.’

Amaia’s interest quickened.

‘I thought they’d take much longer …’

‘Yes, the process was problematic because of the singular nature of the sample. Doubtless a copy will be waiting for you in Elizondo, but since you’re here …’

‘What’s so special about the sample? Isn’t it saliva?’

‘Possibly. In fact, everything suggests that it is indeed saliva. The singularity resides in the vast quantity of bacteria present in the fluid, hence the ghastly stench. And, of course, the fact that it isn’t human.’

‘It is saliva, but it isn’t human? Where is it from then, an animal?’

‘The fluid resembles saliva, and it could come from an animal, although, judging from those levels of bacteria, I’d say a dead one. I’m no expert in zoology, but the only animal I can think of is a Komodo dragon.’

Amaia’s eyes opened wide with surprise.

‘I know,’ declared San Martín. ‘It sounds absurd, and, needless to say we have no sample of Komodo dragon saliva with which to compare it. But that’s what came to mind when I saw the amount of bacteria it contained. Enough to cause septicaemia in anyone who touched it.’

‘I know a zoologist who might be able to help us. Has a sample been kept?’

He shook his head. ‘It was relatively fresh when the toy bear arrived at the lab, but I’m afraid it degraded too quickly to be of use.’

Amaia always let Jonan drive when she needed to think. Berasategui’s suicide had taken them by surprise, but it was the conversation with Sarasola that was occupying her mind. The murder of Valentín Esparza’s little girl, his attempt to make off with her body, a body he insisted shouldn’t be cremated. But more than anything, it was the coffin weighted with bags of sugar that had brought back the painful image of another white coffin resting in her family vault in San Sebastián; only a month ago she had prised it open to discover that someone had replaced the body with bags of gravel.

She needed to question Valentín Esparza again. He had read out his statement before the magistrate, adding nothing new. He admitted to taking his daughter’s dead body because he wanted to be with her for a while. But it was his remark about giving up his daughter to Inguma, the demon that robbed children’s breath, ‘like all the other sacrifices’, that continued to echo in her head. He had smothered his daughter. Traces of his skin and saliva had been found on the toy; besides the mystery of the unknown bacteria, the method was painfully familiar.

She called ahead to Elizondo to convene a meeting as soon as they arrived, but otherwise she hardly spoke during the journey. It wasn’t raining that afternoon, although it was so damp and cold that Jonan decided to park in the garage. As she was reaching to open the car door, she turned to him.

‘Jonan, could you collect some data on the frequency of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome in the valley in the last five years, say?’

‘Of course, I’ll get on to it right away,’ he said with a smile.

‘And you can wipe that grin off your face. I don’t believe for a moment that a demon is responsible for the Esparza girl’s death. However, I have a witness who says that a sect was set up in a farmhouse here in the valley in the seventies, a sort of hippy commune. They started to dabble in the occult, and went as far as carrying out ritual animal sacrifices. The witness claims there was some talk about sacrificing humans, specifically newborn babies. When the witness stopped attending the meetings, she was harassed by some of the other sect members. She can’t remember exactly how long the gatherings continued, but in all likelihood the group eventually dispersed. As I say, it was clearly the father not a demon who killed that child. But in light of Esparza’s attempt to abduct the body, together with what Sarasola told us, and the proliferation of sects and other cults known to European police forces, I think it’s worth checking for any statistical anomalies in infant death rates here in the valley compared to other regions and countries.’

‘Do you think your sister’s body may have suffered the same fate?’

‘I don’t know, Jonan, but the feeling of déjà vu when I saw the photographs of that empty coffin convinced me we’re looking at the same modus operandi. This isn’t evidence, it’s just a hunch, which may lead nowhere. Let’s compare your data with that of our colleagues, and then we’ll see.’

She was about to enter the house when her phone rang. The screen showed an unknown number.

‘Inspector Salazar,’ she said, answering.

‘Is it nighttime already in Baztán, Inspector?’

She recognised instantly the gravelly voice on the other end of the phone, even though he was speaking in a whisper.

‘Aloisius! But, what is this number …?’

‘It’s a safe number, but you mustn’t call me on it. I’ll call you when you need me.’

She didn’t bother to ask how he would know when she needed him. Somehow their relationship had always been like that. She moved away from the house and spent the next few minutes explaining to Dupree everything she knew about the case: her belief that her mother was alive, the dead girl that had to be given up, Elena Ochoa’s behaviour, Berasategui’s message from her mother, and his staged suicide. The unusual saliva sample resembling that of an ancient reptile which only existed on the far away island of Komodo …’

He listened to her in silence, and, when she had finished, he asked:

‘You’re faced with a complex puzzle, but that’s not why you called … What did you want to ask me about?’

‘The dead girl’s great grandmother claimed that a demon by the name of Inguma entered through a crack, sat on the girl’s chest, and sucked the air from her lungs; she says that this demon has appeared on other occasions, and taken many children’s lives. Father Sarasola explained to me that Inguma exists in other cultures: Sumerian, African, and Hmong, as well as in the old, dark folktales of the Baztán Valley.’

She heard a deep sigh on the other end of the phone. Then nothing. Silence.

‘Aloisius, are you there?’

‘I can’t talk any more. I’ll try to send you something in the next few days … I have to hang up now.’

The disconnection tone reached her through the earpiece.

15 (#ulink_fdac0062-017b-5e2b-ae5f-3771d1297c4c)

Ros Salazar had smoked from the age of seventeen up until the moment when she decided she wanted to become a mother. But apparently that wasn’t to be. Since separating from Freddy, her relations with men had amounted to a few half-hearted flirtations in bars; Elizondo didn’t offer too many other options when it came to finding a partner, so the chances of meeting someone new were minimal. And yet she still found herself increasingly obsessed about her prospects of becoming a mother, even though in her case that would probably mean going it alone. With that in mind, she had refrained from taking up smoking again, although occasionally, late at night, after her aunt went to bed, she would roll a joint. Afterwards, on the pretext of getting some fresh air, she would walk to the bakery. There she would sit in her office, peacefully smoking, enjoying the solitude of remaining behind in her place of business after everyone else had gone home.

She was surprised to see that the lights were still on, her immediate assumption being that Ernesto had forgotten to switch them off before locking up. As she opened the door, she noticed that her office light was also on. She reached for her phone, punched in the number for the emergency services, her finger poised over the call button, then shouted:

‘Who’s there? The police are on their way.’

She heard a sudden noise of things being moved, a thud followed by a rustle.

Just as she pressed the button, Flora’s voice rang out: