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‘We’ll leave for Elizondo first thing tomorrow, I want to attend Ainhoa Elizasu’s funeral. As you already know, I have family there, so I’ll definitely be staying. The rest of you,’ she said, turning to the team, ‘can drive up each day for the duration of the investigation. It’s only fifty kilometres and the roads are good.’
Montes came over before leaving. ‘I’ve just got one question,’ he said in a markedly scornful tone, ‘will I have to call you chief?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Fermín, this is just temporary and …’
‘Don’t bother, chief, I heard the Commissioner, and you’ll have my full cooperation,’ he said, before giving her a mock military salute and stalking out.
5 (#ulink_98810500-5b4e-547b-8099-3f7c5c5b256b)
Amaia walked slightly distractedly through the old town of Pamplona, making her way towards her house, an old restored building right in the middle of Calle Mercaderes. In the Thirties there had been an umbrella shop on the ground floor and the old sign announcing Izaguirre Umbrellas ‘Hold quality and prestige in your hands’ was still visible. James always said that the main reason he had chosen the house was for the space and light in the workshop, a perfect location to install his sculptor’s studio, but she knew that the thing that had prompted her husband to buy the house in the middle of the bull running course was the same thing that had brought him to Pamplona in the first place. Like thousands of North Americans, he felt an enormous passion for the San Fermín festival, for Hemingway and for this city, a passion that seemed almost childish to her and which he revived each year when the festival arrived. Much to Amaia’s relief, James didn’t take part in the bull running, but every day he would stroll along the eight hundred and fifty metres of the course from Santo Domingo, learning by heart each curve, each stumbling block, each paving stone all the way to the square. She loved the way she would see him smile each year as the festival drew near, the way he would dig his white clothes out of a trunk and would set out to buy a new neckerchief, even though he seemed to have hundreds already. He had been in Pamplona for a couple of years when she met him; he was living in a pretty flat in the city centre at the time and renting a studio to work in very near the town hall. When they decided to get married, James took her to see the house on Calle Mercaderes and she thought it was magnificent, although too big and too expensive. This wasn’t a problem for James, who was already starting to earn a certain prestige in the art world. Furthermore, he came from a wealthy family of state-of-the-art work-wear manufacturers in the United States. They bought the house, James installed his studio in the old workshop and they promised themselves they would fill it with children as soon as Amaia became an inspector on the homicide team.
It was four years since she’d become an inspector, San Fermín came round each year, James became more famous in artistic circles, but the children didn’t arrive. Amaia lifted her hand to her stomach in a subconscious gesture of protection and longing. She quickened her pace until she overtook a group of Romanian immigrants who were arguing in the street and smiled when she saw the light glowing in James’ workshop between the slits in the shutters. She looked at her watch, it was almost half past ten and he was still working. She opened the front door, left her keys on the old table that acted as a sideboard and went to the workshop, passing through what used to be the house’s entrance hall, which still retained its original floor of large round stones and a trapdoor that led to a blind passage where wine or oil had been stored in the old days. James was washing a piece of grey marble in a sink full of soapy water. He smiled when he saw her.
‘Give me a minute to get this great toad out of the water and I’ll be with you.’
He arranged the piece of stone on a rack, covered it with a piece of linen and dried his hands on the white cook’s apron he normally wore to work in.
‘How are you, my love? Tired?’
He wrapped his arms around her and she felt like there were butterflies in her stomach, as she always did when they embraced. She breathed in the scent of his chest through his jersey and waited a moment before replying.
‘I’m not tired, but it’s been a strange day.’
He drew back enough to be able to see her face.
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Well, we’re still working on the case of the girl from my town. It turns out that it’s quite similar to another one from a month ago, also in Elizondo, and it’s been established that the cases are related.’
‘Related in what way?’
‘It looks like it’s the same killer.’
‘Oh God, that means there’s an animal out there who kills young girls.’
‘They’re almost still children, James. The thing is, the Commissioner has put me in charge of the investigation.’
‘Congratulations, Inspector,’ he said, kissing her.
‘It hasn’t made everyone all that happy, Montes didn’t take it very well. I think he got quite angry.’
‘Don’t worry about him, you know Fermín: he’s a good man but he’s going through a difficult time right now. He’ll get over it, he admires you.’
‘I’m not sure …’
‘But I am, he admires you. Believe me. Are you hungry?’
‘Have you made something?’
‘Of course, Chef Westford has prepared the house special.’
‘I’m dying to taste it. What is it?’ asked Amaia, smiling.
‘What do you mean what is it? Beggars can’t be choosers! Spaghetti with mushrooms and a bottle of Chivite rosé.’
‘You go and open it while I shower.’
She kissed her husband and headed for the shower. Once beneath the water she closed her eyes and let it run down her face for a while, then rested her hands and her forehead against the tiles, which were cold in contrast, and felt the jet of water stream down her neck and shoulders. The day’s events had followed on from one another in quick succession and she hadn’t yet had the chance to weigh up the consequences the case might have for her career or for her immediate future. A gust of cold air surrounded her as James got into the shower. She stayed where she was, enjoying the warmth of the water, which seemed to carry any coherent thought down the drain with it. James stood behind her and kissed her shoulders very slowly. Amaia tilted her head sideways offering him her neck in a gesture that always made her think of the old Dracula films, in which his naïve and virginal victims surrendering themselves to the vampire, would uncover their necks as far as the shoulder and half close their eyes in the hope of superhuman pleasures. James kissed her neck, pressing his body against hers and turned her as he searched for her mouth. Contact with James’s lips was enough, as always, to banish all other thoughts from her mind. She ran her hands sensuously over her husband’s body, delighting in the feel of him, in the smooth firmness of his flesh, and let him kiss her sweetly.
‘I love you,’ James groaned in her ear.
‘I love you,’ she murmured. And she smiled at the certainty that this was true, that she loved him more than anything, more than anyone, and at how happy it made her to have him between her legs, inside her, and to make love with him. When they finished, this same smile would last for hours, as if a moment with him was enough to exorcise all the world’s ills.
Deep down, Amaia thought that only he could really make her feel like a woman. In her daily professional life she let her feminine side take second place and concentrated solely on doing a good job; but outside work, her height and her slim, sinewy body, together with the rather sober clothes she usually chose, made her feel quite unfeminine when she was around other women, particularly the wives of James’s colleagues, who were shorter and more petite, with their small, smooth hands that had never touched a dead body. She didn’t normally wear jewellery except her wedding ring and some small earrings that James told her were like a little girl’s; her hair in its practical ponytail and the minimal make-up she wore combined to give her a serious and rather masculine appearance which he loved and she cultivated. In addition, Amaia knew that the firmness of her voice and the confidence with which she spoke and moved were enough to intimidate those bitches when they made malicious comments about her delayed motherhood. A subject she found upsetting.
They chatted while they ate and went to bed straight away. She admired James’s ability to disconnect from the day’s troubles and close his eyes as soon as his head hit the pillow. She always took a long time to relax enough to sleep; sometimes she read for hours before she managed it, and she would wake up at even the smallest noise during the night. The year she was promoted to Inspector she used to become so tense and nervous during the day that she would fall exhaustedly into a deep, amnesiac sleep, only to wake up two or three hours later with her back paralysed by a painful spasm that would prevent her from dropping off again. The tension had decreased with time, but she still wasn’t getting very good quality sleep. She used to leave a small lamp on the landing switched on so that its slanting light would reach the bedroom and help her orientate herself when she woke with a start from one of her frequent nightmares. Now she tried in vain to concentrate on the book she was holding. Eventually, exhausted and preoccupied, she let it slip to the floor. She didn’t turn out the light, though, but stared at the ceiling, planning the coming day. Attending the funeral and burial of Ainhoa Elizasu. With crimes like these, the killer often knew his victims, and it was probable that he lived near them and saw them every day. These murderers demonstrated a remarkable audacity. Their self-confidence and morbid tastes would often lead them to collaborate with the investigation, taking part in the search for the missing victims and attending vigils, funerals, and burials, in some cases offering public displays of their sympathy and distress. For the moment they couldn’t be sure of anything, not even the relatives had been ruled out as suspects. But as a starting point it wasn’t bad, it would be useful to get a feel for the situation, to observe reactions, to listen to comments and people’s opinions. And, of course, to see her sisters and her aunt … It hadn’t been long since she’d last seen them, on Christmas Eve, and Flora and Ros had ended up arguing. She sighed deeply.
‘If you don’t stop thinking out loud, you’ll never get to sleep,’ said James drowsily.
‘I’m sorry, darling, did I wake you up?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he smiled, sitting up beside her. ‘But do you want to tell me what’s going on in your head?’
‘You already know I’m going up to Elizondo tomorrow … I’ve been thinking about staying for a few days. I think it would be better to be there, to speak to the families and friends and get more of a general impression. What do you think?’
‘It must be pretty cold up there.’
‘Yes, but I’m not talking about the weather.’
‘I am, though. I know you, you can never sleep if you’ve got cold feet, and that would be terrible for the investigation.’
‘James …’
‘I could come with you to keep them warm for you if you want,’ he said, raising an eyebrow.
‘Would you seriously come with me?’
‘Of course I would, I’m well-ahead of schedule with my work and it would be nice to see your sisters and your aunt.’
‘We’d stay at her house.’
‘Great.’
‘I’ll be quite busy and I won’t have much free time, though.’
‘I’ll play Mus or Poker with your aunt and her friends.’
‘They’ll clean you out.’
‘I’m very rich.’
They both laughed at this and Amaia carried on talking about what they could do in Elizondo until she realised that James was asleep. She kissed him gently on the head and covered his shoulders with the duvet. When she got up to use the toilet she noticed bloody marks on the paper as she wiped herself. She looked at herself in the mirror as the tears welled up in her eyes. With her long hair falling over her shoulders she looked younger and more vulnerable, like the little girl she had once been.
‘Not this time, either, darling, not this time either,’ she whispered, knowing that there would be no consolation. She took a painkiller and, shivering, got back into bed.
6 (#ulink_1766bd32-e50a-5121-8f3c-a3668c941b1c)
The cemetery was full of neighbours who had taken time off work and even closed their shops in order to attend the burial. The rumour that she might not be the first girl to die at the hands of this criminal was beginning to spread. During the funeral, which had taken place barely two hours earlier in the parish Church of Santiago, the priest had implied in his sermon that evil appeared to be stalking the valley and during the prayer for the dead, around the open grave in the ground, the atmosphere was tense and ominous, as if an inescapable curse was hovering over the heads of those present. The silence was broken only by Ainhoa’s brother who, supported by his cousins, doubled over with a harsh, convulsive groan that came from deep inside him and reduced him to heartrending sobs. His parents, standing nearby, seemed not to hear him. Holding one another for support, they wept silently without taking their eyes off the coffin that contained their daughter’s body. Jonan recorded the entire service from his position leaning on top of an old vault. Standing behind the parents, Montes observed the group just opposite them, closest to the grave. Deputy Inspector Zabalza had stationed himself near the gate in a camouflaged car and was taking photos of all the people who entered the cemetery, including those heading towards different graves and those who didn’t actually go in but stayed outside, talking in huddles or standing by the railings.
Amaia saw her Aunt Engrasi, who was holding Ros’s arm, and wondered where her layabout of a brother-in-law could be; almost certainly still in bed. Freddy had never made an effort in his life; his father had died when he was only five and he had grown up anaesthetised by the fuss made of him by a hysterical mother and a multitude of aging aunts who had spoiled him rotten. He hadn’t even turned up for dinner last Christmas Eve. Ros hadn’t eaten a bite while she watched the door with an ashen face and dialled Freddy’s number time and again, only to be told it was unavailable. Although they had all tried to pretend it didn’t matter, Flora had been unable to resist the opportunity to say exactly what she thought of that loser and they had ended up arguing. Ros had left halfway through dinner and Flora and a resigned Víctor had followed suit as soon as dessert was over. Since then things between them had been even worse than normal. Amaia waited until everyone had offered the parents their condolences before approaching the grave, which the cemetery workers had just closed with a grey marble cover which did not yet feature Ainhoa’s name.
‘Amaia.’
She saw Víctor coming over, making his way through the parishioners who were flooding out of the cemetery after Ainhoa’s parents. She had known Víctor since she was a young girl, when he had first started going out with Flora. Although it was now two years since they had separated, to Amaia, Víctor was still her brother-in-law.
‘Hello Amaia, how are you?’
‘Fine, given the circumstances.’
‘Oh, of course,’ he said, casting a troubled glance at the tomb. ‘Even so, I’m very happy to see you.’
‘Likewise. Did you come by yourself?’
‘No, with your sister.’
‘I didn’t see you.’
‘We saw you …’
‘Where is Flora?’
‘You know her … she’s already gone, but don’t take it the wrong way.’
Aunt Engrasi and Ros were coming up the gravel path; Víctor exchanged a friendly greeting with them and left the cemetery, turning to wave when he reached the gate.
‘I don’t know how he puts up with her,’ remarked Ros.
‘He doesn’t anymore, had you forgotten that they’ve separated?’ said Amaia.
‘What do you mean he doesn’t anymore? She’s like a dog in the manger. She neither eats nor lets others eat.’
‘That does describe Flora rather well,’ agreed Aunt Engrasi.
‘I’ve got to go and see her, I’ll let you know how it goes later.’
Founded in 1865, Mantecadas Salazar was one of the oldest confectionery and patisserie companies in Navarra. Six generations of Salazars had run it, although it had been Flora, taking over from their parents, who had known how to make the necessary decisions to keep such a company going in the current market. The original sign engraved on the marble façade had been retained, but the wide wooden shutters had been replaced by huge frosted windows that prevented people seeing in. Making her way round the building, Amaia arrived at the door to the warehouse, which was always open when there was work underway. She gave it a rap with her knuckles. As she went in she saw a group of workers chatting while they made up boxes of pastries. She recognised some of them, greeted them, and made her way to Flora’s office, breathing in the sweet smell of sugared flour and melted butter that had been a part of her for so many years, as integral to her sense of identity as her DNA. Her parents had been the forerunners of the process of change, but Flora had steered it to completion with a steady hand. Amaia saw that she had replaced all the ovens except the wood-fired one and that the old marble counters on which her father had kneaded dough were now made of stainless steel. Some of the dispensers had been upgraded and the different areas were separated by sparklingly clean windows; if it hadn’t been for the powerful aroma of syrup it would have reminded her more of an operating theatre than a pastry workshop. In contrast, Flora’s office was a big surprise. The oak desk that dominated one corner was the only piece of furniture that looked at all businesslike. A large rustic kitchen with a fireplace and a wooden worktop acted as the reception; a floral sofa and a modern espresso machine completed the ensemble, which was really very welcoming.
Flora was making coffee and arranging the cups and saucers as if she was receiving guests.
‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ she said without turning round when she heard the door.
‘This must be the only place you wait, you almost ran out of the cemetery.’
‘That’s because I, Amaia, don’t have time to waste, I have to work.’
‘So do the rest of us, Flora.’
‘No, not like the rest of you, sister dear, some more than others. I’m sure that Ros, or rather Rosaura, as she now wants to be called, has time to spare.’
‘I don’t know what makes you say that,’ said Amaia, somewhere between surprised and upset by her older sister’s dismissive tone.
‘Well, I say it because our darling sister’s got problems with that loser Freddy again. She’s been spending hours on the phone recently trying to find out where he is, that is when she’s not wandering around with puffy red eyes from crying over that shit. I tried to tell her, but she just wouldn’t listen … Until one day, two weeks ago, she stopped coming to work under the pretext of being ill and I can tell you exactly what was wrong with her … she was in a temper with a capital“t” thanks to that PlayStation champion. He’s no good for anything except spending the money Ros earns, playing his stupid computer games and getting off his head on dope. To get back to the point, a week ago Queen Rosaura deigned to turn up here and hand in her resignation. What do you think of that?! She says she can no longer work with me and she wants her final pay slip.’
Amaia looked at her in silence.
‘That’s what your darling sister did; instead of getting rid of that loser she comes to me and asks for her final pay slip. Her final pay slip,’ she repeated indignantly. ‘She ought to reimburse me for having to put up with all her shit and her complaints, her martyr’s face. She looks like she’s got the weight of the world on her shoulders but she’s the one who chose to carry it in the first place. And do you know what I think? So much the better. I’ve got twenty other employees and I don’t have to hear sob stories from any of them, let’s see whether they let her get away with half of what I have in her next job.’
‘Flora, you’re her sister …’ murmured Amaia, sipping her coffee.
‘Yes, and in exchange for that honour I have to put up with all her ups and downs.’
‘No, Flora, but one would hope that as her sister you might be a bit more understanding.’
‘Do you think I haven’t been understanding?’ Flora asked, raising her head as she took offence.
‘Perhaps a little patience wouldn’t have done any harm.’
‘Well, that’s the final straw.’ She huffed as she tidied the items on her desk.
Amaia tried again. ‘When she hadn’t been to work for a couple weeks, did you go and see her? Did you ask her what was wrong?’
‘No, no I didn’t. What about you? Did you go and ask her what was wrong?’
‘I didn’t know anything was wrong, Flora, otherwise you can be sure I would have gone to see her. But answer me.’
‘No, I didn’t ask her because I already knew what the answer would be: that that shit has made her into a complete mess. Why ask when we all know the answer?’
‘We also knew the reason when it was you who was suffering, but both Ros and I stood by you.’
‘And now you can see that I didn’t need you, I dealt with it how you should deal with these things, by cutting my losses.’
‘Not everyone is as strong as you are, Flora.’
‘Well you ought to be. The women of this family always have been,’ she said, tearing a piece of paper loudly and tossing it at the wastepaper basket.
The resentment in Flora’s words made it clear she saw her sisters as weaklings, handicapped and half-baked, and looked down on them with an unsympathetic mixture of contempt and disdain.
While Flora washed the coffee cups, Amaia looked at some blown-up photos that were sticking out of an envelope on the table. They showed her older sister dressed as a pastry chef and smiling as she kneaded some sticky dough.
