Offering to the Storm

‘Ros, it’s only me …’

‘Flora?’ she said, ending the call and approaching the office. ‘What are you doing here? I thought we were being burgled.’

‘I …’ Flora faltered. ‘I thought … I was sure I’d forgotten something, and I came to see if I’d left it here.’

‘What?’

Flora glanced about nervously.

‘My bag,’ she lied.

‘Your bag?’ repeated Ros. ‘Well, it’s not here.’

‘I can see that, and I was just leaving,’ she said, pushing past her sister towards the exit.

A moment later, Ros heard the heavy door of the bakery slam shut. She scanned the office, scrutinising each object. She had surprised Flora doing something suspicious, that much was clear, something that had caused her to make up that ridiculous excuse about her bag. But what could have prompted her to sneak into the bakery in the middle of the night?

Ros moved the swivel chair out from behind the desk and placed it in the centre of the room. She sat down, felt in her pocket for the joint she had brought with her, and lit it. She took a long draw, which made her feel dizzy. She exhaled, leaning back in the chair and turning in a slow circle, letting each object in the room tell its story. One hour and several turns later, her eye alighted on the wall where her favourite painting of the covered market hung. She would often contemplate the scene, because of the calm it radiated, but that wasn’t what drew her attention now. The painting had spoken. She rose to make sure she had interpreted its message correctly, smiling when she saw the heel marks left by Flora’s shoes on the sofa below. She stood on the same spot, and lifted the frame, which was heavier than she’d expected.

She wasn’t surprised to see the safe, she knew it was there; Flora had installed it years ago, to keep the cash with which to pay their suppliers. Nowadays, she paid them by bank transfer, so, to all intents and purposes, the safe should have been empty. Resting the painting on the sofa, Ros ran her fingers over the wheel lock, although she realised there was no point in trying the combination. She returned to the chair, gazing at that box buried in the wall, musing over many things until the small hours of the morning.

It had started to rain before dawn. Amaia had been aware of the rhythmical pitter-patter against the bedroom shutters during the many micro-awakenings that plagued her sleep, and which she found particularly irksome now that Ibai had started to sleep through. Although the rain had stopped by the time she got up, the wet streets were uninviting, and it came as a relief to enter the warm, dry police station.

As she made her way in, she greeted Montes, Zabalza and Iriarte, gathered as usual around the coffee machine.

‘Do you fancy a coffee, boss?’ Montes asked.

Amaia paused, noting with amusement Zabalza’s sulky expression.

‘Thanks, Inspector, but there’s no pleasure in drinking coffee out of a plastic cup. I’ll make myself a proper one later, in a mug.’

Deputy Inspector Etxaide was waiting for her in her office.

‘Boss, I’ve dug up some interesting facts about SIDS.’

She hung up her coat, switched on her computer and sat down at her desk.

‘I’m listening.’

‘Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, or SIDS, is the name given to unexplained deaths among babies younger than one, but sometimes as old as two. Death occurs during sleep and is apparently painless. Two out of every thousand babies in Europe die of SIDS, ninety per cent within the first six months. Statistically, SIDS is the most widespread cause of death among healthy babies over one month old, although that is largely because if no other cause is discovered during autopsy, death is attributed to SIDS.’

He placed a printout on the desk in front of her. ‘I’ve made a list of the various risk factors, and how to minimise them, although they’re fairly wide-ranging; from prenatal care, breastfeeding and passive smoking, through to how the baby is positioned during sleep. Interestingly, most deaths occur in winter. The average number of deaths in Spain from SIDS is the same as in the rest of Europe. Seventeen children died from SIDS in Navarre in the last five years, four of them in Baztán – numbers which are also well within the norm.’

Amaia looked at him, considering the information.

‘In all cases, an autopsy was performed and the cause of death was registered as SIDS. However, in two of them, the pathologist recommended that social services investigate the family,’ he said, handing her a sheaf of stapled pages. ‘There’s no additional information, but it seems both cases were closed without any further action being taken.’

After knocking gently, Montes poked his head round the door.

‘I hope I’m not interrupting. Etxaide, are you coming for a coffee?’

Clearly surprised by the invitation, Jonan glanced at Amaia, arching his eyebrows.

‘Go ahead, it’ll give me time to read through all this,’ she said, holding up the report.

After Jonan had gone out, Montes poked his head round the door again, and winked.

‘Get out of here!’ she said, grinning.

As Montes left, Iriarte entered.

‘A woman has been found dead,’ he announced. ‘Her daughter drove all the way from Pamplona to check up on her because she wasn’t answering the phone. Apparently, when she got there the mother had vomited huge amounts of blood. She rang the emergency services, but paramedics couldn’t save the woman. The doctor who examined the body suspects that something isn’t right, so he called us …’

Driving across the bridge, she could see in the distance various vehicles belonging to the emergency services. It was only when they reached the end of the street that Amaia saw which house they were attending. In that instant, all the air seemed to be sucked out of the car, leaving her gasping for breath.

‘Do you know the dead woman’s name?’

‘Ochoa,’ said Iriarte. ‘I can’t remember her first name.’

‘Elena Ochoa.’

She needed no confirmation from Iriarte. A pale, distraught woman, looking like a younger version of her mother, stood smoking a cigarette outside the front door. Next to her, a man, presumably her partner, had his arm around her, practically holding her up.

She passed by without speaking to them, walked along the narrow corridor, and was guided to the bedroom by a paramedic. The heat in the room had intensified the pungent smell of blood and urine emanating from the pool surrounding Elena’s body. She was on her knees, jammed between the bed and a chest of drawers, arms clasped about her midriff, body leaning forward so that her face was resting in a patch of bloody bile. Amaia was relieved that Elena’s eyes were closed. Whereas her posture betrayed what must have been the agony of her final moments, her face appeared relaxed, as if the precise instant of death had been a great release.

Amaia turned towards the doctor, who stood waiting behind her.

‘Inspector Iriarte told me you’d found some anomaly …’

‘Yes, at first I thought she must have suffered a massive internal haemorrhage that filled her stomach with blood, causing her lungs to collapse. But when I looked closer, I could see that her vomit was made up of what appear to be tiny splinters.’

Amaia leaned over the pool of bloody vomit and saw that it did indeed contain hundreds of wood shavings.

Crouching down beside her, the doctor showed her a plastic container.

‘I took a sample, and this is what was left after washing off the blood.’

‘But, surely those are—’

‘Walnut shells, cut into razor-thin slices … I can’t begin to think how she swallowed them, but ingesting this amount would certainly perforate her stomach, duodenum, and trachea. Worst of all, when she vomited them up again, they must have torn her insides to shreds. She seems to have been prescribed anti-depressants. They’re on top of the microwave oven in the kitchen. Of course, she may not have been taking them. I can’t think of a more horrible way to kill oneself.’

Elena Ochoa’s daughter had inherited her mother’s appearance, her name and her hospitality towards guests. She insisted on making coffee for everyone in the house. Amaia had tried to protest, but the boyfriend intervened.

‘It will take her mind off things,’ he said.

From the same chair she had occupied during her most recent visit, Amaia watched the young woman moving about the kitchen. As before, she waited until the cups had been set out and the coffee poured before speaking.

‘I knew your mother.’