The Legacy of the Bones

San Martín started to pull on his gloves.

‘So, Inspector, which of the two do you want us to start on?’

‘Which of what two?’ she asked, puzzled.

‘Lucía Aguirre,’ he said pointing to the body draped with a sheet on a nearby slab, ‘or Ramon Quiralte,’ he added, signalling a table further away, on which she could make out a large shape still zipped inside a body bag.

Amaia looked at him quizzically.

‘Both autopsies are scheduled for today, so we can start with whichever one you like.’

Amaia walked over to the mound made by Quiralte’s body on the table, unzipped the bag and studied his face. Death had erased any vestige of good looks he might once have possessed. Around his eyes, dark purple spots had formed where small capillary veins had burst from the strain of vomiting. His half-open mouth, frozen in the middle of a spasm, revealed his teeth and the tip of his white-coated tongue, which protruded like a third lip. His swollen lips were covered in acid burns, and still streaked with vomit, which had trickled into his ear and formed rank clots in his hair. Amaia looked over to where the woman lay and shook her head. Only two metres separated victim and executioner; it was quite conceivable they would use the same scalpel to cut open both bodies.

‘He shouldn’t be here,’ she said, thinking out loud.

‘Pardon?’ replied San Martín.

‘He shouldn’t be here … Not with her.’ The assistants stared at her, bemused. ‘Not together,’ she added, gesturing towards Lucía’s corpse.

‘I doubt whether either of them care at this point, don’t you think?’

She realised that, even if she could explain, they wouldn’t understand.

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ she muttered to herself.

‘Right, then, which one do you want first?’

‘I’m not interested in him,’ she replied coldly. ‘Suicide, end of story.’

She zipped up the bag, and Quiralte’s face disappeared.

The pathologist shrugged as he uncovered Lucía Aguirre’s body. Approaching the slab, Amaia came to a halt, bowed her head in a fleeting prayer, then finally looked up. Stripped of her red-and-white pullover, Amaia barely recognised the cheerful woman whose smiling face presided over the entrance to her house. The corpse had been washed, but the multiple blows, scratches, and bruises she had suffered made the woman appear soiled.

‘Doctor,’ said Amaia, moving closer to him, ‘I wanted to ask you a favour. I know you follow strict procedures, but, as you can imagine, what really interests me is the amputation. I managed to get hold of photos of the skeletal remains the Guardia Civil discovered in the cave at Elizondo,’ she said, showing San Martín a thick envelope. ‘This is all they’ve given me so far. What I need you to do is compare the two sections where the bones were cut through. If we could establish a link between this and the Johana Márquez case, Judge Markina would authorise further measures that might enable us to make headway in the case. I’m meeting him later today – I was hoping I could take along something a little more convincing than mere theories.’

San Martín nodded. ‘All right, let’s get started.’

Switching on a powerful lamp above the body, he held a magnifying glass above the severed limb and photographed the lesion. Then he leaned in so close his nose almost touched the mutilated arm.

‘A clean, post-mortem incision. The heart had already stopped, and the blood was clotting. It was made with a serrated object similar to an electric saw, yet different; this is reminiscent of the Johana Márquez case, where the direction of the incision also suggested an electric knife or angle grinder. Since in the Márquez case it was assumed the culprit was the stepfather, no further inquiries were made into the object he might have used; a few tools from the house and his car were examined, but no matches found.’

Amaia lined up the photographs Padua had given her on the negatoscope and switched on the light, while San Martín placed the one the printer had just spat out next to them.

He studied the images at length, rearranging and occasionally superimposing them, giving low, rhythmical grunts that set Amaia’s teeth on edge and brought joking remarks from his assistants.

‘In your opinion, were the incisions made with the same object?’ Amaia asked, interrupting San Martín’s musings.

‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘Now that would be saying a lot. But what I can confirm is that the same technique was used for all of them; they were made by a right-handed person who was very assured and also very strong.’

Amaia gazed at him, wanting more.

San Martín went on, grinning at the glimmer of hope he saw in the inspector’s eye:

‘Although I can confirm that the bones all belonged to adults, without any tissue attached, it’s impossible to pinpoint their exact age or sex from looking at the photos, still less whether these limbs were surgical amputations or taken from a desecrated tomb. It’s obvious at first glance that the incisions resemble one another, that the bones are all forearms … However, in order to be one hundred per cent certain, I’d need to examine the instrument that was used. We could make moulds of the bones themselves to scan and compare them. I’m sorry, Inspector, but that’s the best I can do, based on photographic evidence. It would be different if we had the actual samples.’

‘The Guardia Civil have their own laboratories – that’s where the samples are kept. You know how reticent their top brass is about sharing information. I’ve been saying for years that until we set up an independent criminal investigation unit, with members from all the different forces, including Interpol, working together in the same laboratories, investigations like this one will continue to grope in the dark,’ complained Amaia. ‘Thank heavens for officers like Padua, who are genuinely interested in solving crimes, not in scoring points.’

Amaia walked back to the body, leaning over as San Martín had done to take a closer look at the wound.

The flesh looked withered and cracked, dried out. The skin had a pale, faintly washed-out quality compared to the rest of the body. Seeing the tiny serrations the blade had made on the bone, she suddenly thought she could make out a dark, pointed object embedded in the flesh.

‘Come over here will you, Doctor? What do you think this could be?’ she asked, stepping aside so he could look through the magnifier.

He glanced up, surprised.

‘I didn’t see that. Well done, Salazar,’ he complimented her. ‘I expect it’s a bit of bone that broke off during the amputation,’ he explained, extracting the fragment with a pair of tweezers. He examined the tiny triangle beneath the magnifier before placing it on a tray, where it made a definite metallic tinkle. He carried it swiftly over to the microscope, then raised his eyes with a grin as he made room for her. ‘Inspector Salazar, what we have here is the tooth of a metal saw – the saw used to amputate the victim’s arm. If we make a mock-up from this one tooth, we’ll have a good chance of establishing approximately what type of saw it was. And if you’re clever enough to persuade Judge Markina, we should be able to carry out tests to ascertain whether the same instrument was used on the bones discovered in the cave in Elizondo. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll get on with the autopsy,’ he said, handing the tray containing the sample to his assistant, who immediately set to work.

8 (#ulink_f37913c4-3822-5e12-8cd1-31ad2f750e7f)

Inmaculada Herranz was one of those women who earned people’s trust by appearing at once friendly and anxious to please. With her slight build and discreet gestures, Amaia had always thought of her as an ugly geisha; her soft voice and hooded eyelids disguised the stern expression on her face something upset her. Amaia had never warmed to her, despite, or perhaps because of, her affected politeness. For six years, Inmaculada had been Judge Estébanez’s efficient and ever-willing personal assistant, but the judge had no qualms about leaving her behind when she was promoted to her new post on the High Court in Madrid, even though Inmaculada was unmarried and had no children.

Inmaculada’s dismay soon gave way to glee when Judge Markina filled the vacant post, although from then on she was obliged to spend more of her salary on clothes and perfume in an effort to make Markina notice her. And she wasn’t the only one; there was a joke doing the rounds of the courtrooms about the increased expenditure on lipstick and hairdressers among female staff.

Amaia had dialled Markina’s number on her way to her car. Searching her pockets for a pair of sunglasses to ward off the dazzling light reflected in the rain puddles, she waited to hear his secretary’s mellifluous voice.

‘Good afternoon, Inmaculada, this is Inspector Salazar from the murder squad at the Navarre Police Department. Could I speak to Judge Markina, please?’

Her icy response took Amaia by surprise.

‘It’s two-thirty in the afternoon and, as you can imagine, the judge isn’t here.’

‘Yes, I know what time it is. I’ve just come from an autopsy, the results of which Judge Markina is waiting to hear. He asked me to call him …’

‘I see …’ replied the secretary.

‘I find it hard to believe he would forget. Do you know if he’s coming back later?’

‘No, he isn’t coming back, and of course he hasn’t forgotten.’ She paused for a few seconds, then added: ‘He left a number for you to call.’

Amaia waited in silence, amused at her blatant hostility. She sighed loudly to make it clear her patience was wearing thin, then asked:

‘So, Inmaculada, are you going to give me that number, or do I need a court order? Ah, no, wait, I already have one from the judge himself.’

She didn’t respond, but even over the telephone, Amaia could sense the woman pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes in that prudish way so typical of mousy women like her. She read the number out once then hung up without saying goodbye.

Amaia looked at her mobile in amazement. What a long streak of misery! she thought. She punched in the numbers from memory and waited.

Judge Markina replied after one ring tone.