Offering to the Storm

‘In the old days, we’d have buried her here,’ she said.

Amaia lowered her gaze to the trodden earth and the clear line traced by water falling from the eaves. She was unable to speak, assailed by images of her own family graveyard, the remains of a cot blanket poking out from the dark soil.

‘Kinder than leaving her all alone in a cemetery, or cremating her, which is what my granddaughter wants to do … The modern ways aren’t always the best. In the old days, we women weren’t told how we should do things; we may have done some things wrong, but we did others much better.’ The woman spoke to her in Spanish, although from the way she pronounced her ‘r’s, Amaia inferred that she usually spoke Basque. An old Baztán etxekoandrea, one of a generation of invincible women who had seen a whole century, and who still had the strength to get up every morning, scrape her hair into a bun, cook, and feed the animals; Amaia noticed the powdery traces of the millet the woman had been carrying in the pockets of her black apron, in the old tradition. ‘You do what has to be done.’

As the woman shuffled towards her in her green wellingtons, Amaia resisted the urge to go to her aid, sensing this might embarrass her. Instead she waited until the woman drew level, then extended her hand.

‘Who were you speaking to?’ she said, gesturing towards the open meadow.

‘To the bees.’

Amaia looked at her, puzzled.

Erliak, elriak

Gaur il da etxeko nausiya

Erliak, elriak

Eta bear da elizan argia

(#litres_trial_promo)

Amaia recalled her aunt telling her that in Baztán, when someone died, the mistress of the house would go to where the hives were kept in the meadow and ask the bees to make more wax for the extra candles needed to illuminate the deceased during the wake and funeral. According to her aunt, the incantation would increase the bees’ production three-fold.

Touched by the woman’s gesture, Amaia imagined she could hear her Aunt Engrasi saying, ‘When all else fails, we return to the old traditions.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she said.

Ignoring Amaia’s hand, the woman embraced her with surprising strength. After releasing her, she lowered her eyes to the ground, wiping her tears away with the pocket of the apron in which she had carried the chicken feed. Amaia – moved by the woman’s dignified courage, which had rekindled the lifelong admiration she’d felt towards that generation – maintained a respectful silence.

‘He didn’t do it,’ the woman said suddenly.

Trained to know when someone was about to unburden themselves, Amaia didn’t reply.

‘No one takes any notice of me because I’m an old woman, but I know who killed our little girl, and it wasn’t that foolish father of hers. All he cares about is cars, motorbikes and showing off. He loves money the way pigs love apples. I should know, I courted men like that in my youth. They would come to pick me up on motorbikes, or in cars, but I wasn’t taken in by all that nonsense. I wanted a real man …’

The old woman’s mind was starting to wander. Amaia steered her back to the present:

‘Do you know who killed her?’

‘Yes, I told them,’ she said, waving a hand towards the house. ‘But no one listens to me because I’m an old woman.’

‘I’m listening to you. Tell me who did this.’

‘It was Inguma – Inguma killed her,’ she declared emphatically.

‘Who is Inguma?’

The old woman’s grief was palpable as she gazed at Amaia.

‘That poor girl! Inguma is the demon that steals children’s souls while they sleep. Inguma slipped through the cracks, sat on her chest and took her soul.’

Amaia opened her mouth, confused, then closed it again, unsure what to say.

‘You think I’m spouting old wives’ tales,’ the woman said accusingly.

‘Not at all …’

‘In the annals of Baztán it says that Inguma awoke once and took away hundreds of children. The doctors called it whooping cough, but it was Inguma who came to rob their breath while they slept.’

Inés Ballarena appeared from around the side of the house.

‘Ama, what are you doing here? I told you I’d fed the chickens this morning.’ She clasped the old lady by the arm, addressing Amaia: ‘You must excuse my mother, she’s very old; what happened has upset her terribly.’

‘Of course,’ murmured Amaia. To her relief, at that moment a call came through on her mobile. She excused herself and moved away to a discreet distance to take the call.

‘Dr San Martín, have you finished already?’ she said, glancing at her watch.

‘Actually, we’ve only just started.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve asked a colleague to help me on this occasion,’ he said, unable to disguise the catch in his voice, ‘but, I thought I’d let you know what we’ve found so far. The victim was suffocated with a soft object, such as a pillow or cushion. You saw the mark above the bridge of the nose; when you conduct your search, keep in mind the measurement I gave you. Forensics are currently examining a few soft, white fibres we found in the folds of the mouth, so that’ll give you some idea of the colour. We also found traces of saliva on her face, mostly belonging to the girl, but there is at least one other donor. It might have been left by a relative kissing her cheek …’

‘When will you be able to tell me more?’

‘In a few hours.’

Amaia ended the call and hurried after the two women. She caught up with them at the front door.

‘Inés, did you bathe your granddaughter before you put her to bed?’

‘Yes, the evening bath relaxed her, it made her sleepy,’ she said, stifling a sob.

Amaia thanked her, then ran up the stairs. ‘We’re looking for something soft and white,’ she said, bursting into the bedroom.

Montes lifted an evidence bag to show her.

‘Snow white,’ he declared, holding aloft the captive bear.

‘How did you …?’

‘From the smell,’ explained Jonan. ‘Then we noticed that the fur looked flattened …’

‘It smells?’ Amaia frowned; a dirty toy seemed incongruous in that room where everything had been carefully thought out down to the last detail.

‘It doesn’t just smell, it stinks,’ said Montes.

6 (#ulink_49b40bd2-4d1f-5b46-bb52-46951cddfd3d)

By the time she left the house, Amaia’s mobile showed three more missed calls from Ros. She’d resisted the temptation to return them, sensing that her sister’s unusual persistence might herald an awkward conversation, which she didn’t want her colleagues to witness. Only once she was in the privacy of her car did she make the call. Ros answered on the first ring, as if she’d been waiting with the phone in her hand.