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.’
‘She never mentioned you,’ said the daughter, surprised.
‘I didn’t know her well. I came here a couple of times to ask her about my mother, Rosario; they were friends in their youth,’ she explained. ‘During my last visit, she seemed agitated. Had you noticed anything strange about your mother’s behaviour in the last few days?’
‘My mother has always suffered with her nerves. She became depressed after my father passed away. She never really got over it. I was seven at the time. She had good days and bad, but she was always fragile. It’s true that, in the last month or so, she was beginning to show signs of paranoia. On the other occasions when that happened, the doctor advised me to be firm, not to feed her fears. But this time I could tell she was genuinely terrified.’
‘You know her better than anyone. Do you think your mother was capable of taking her own life?’
‘You mean, did she kill herself? Never, not in a million years. She was a practising Catholic. Surely you don’t think … My mother died of internal bleeding. She complained of stomach pains when I spoke to her on the phone yesterday. She said she’d taken an antacid and some painkillers, and was going to try drinking camomile tea. I offered to drive up and see her after work. I’ve been living in Pamplona with Luis for a year,’ she said, indicating the young man. ‘We come up most weekends and stay the night. Anyway, she told me not to bother, that it was just a bit of heartburn. Last night, I called her again at bedtime and she told me the camomile tea had helped. But when I called early this morning she didn’t answer …’
‘Elena, the doctor found shards of walnut shell in her vomit – too many for her to have swallowed them accidentally. He also suggests that the internal bleeding was caused by her vomiting them up.’
‘But that’s impossible,’ the young woman replied. ‘My mother hated walnuts, the very sight of them sent her into a panic. She refused to have them in the house – I know, because I did all her shopping. She would rather have dropped dead than touch one. When I was little, a woman came up to me in the street once and gave me a handful of walnuts. When I got home, my mother acted like I’d brought poison into the house. She made me throw them outside, and searched my things to make sure I hadn’t kept any. Then she scrubbed me from head to foot and incinerated my clothes while I cried my eyes out, terrified. She made me swear never to accept walnuts from anyone – obviously, after that, I didn’t. Although, oddly enough, the same woman offered me walnuts several times over the following years. So, you see, my mother would never have eaten them knowingly. There must be some other explanation.’
‘I’ve seen many suicides like this,’ said Dr San Martín, ‘often among the prison population. They’re always gruesome. Remember Quiralte, the fellow who swallowed rat poison? And I’ve seen cases of people ingesting crushed glass, ammoniac, metal shavings … It’s the serene deaths like Dr Berasategui’s that are exceptional, not the horrific ones.’
‘Doctor, could she have swallowed the walnut shavings accidentally, perhaps mixed into food?’ asked Iriarte.
‘I’ll be able to tell you more when I’ve examined the stomach contents, though, judging from the quantity of shavings present in her vomit, I’d say that’s unlikely, if not impossible.’ He turned to Markina: ‘If you have no further questions, your honour, I’d like to get the autopsy under way as soon as possible.’
Markina nodded his approval and the pathologist turned to Amaia. ‘Will you be attending the autopsy, Inspector Salazar?’
‘I’ll be going,’ broke in Iriarte. ‘The victim was known to the inspector’s family.’
Dr San Martín murmured his condolences and set off briskly towards his car. A moment later, Amaia hurried after him, tapped on the window, and leaned in to speak to him.
‘Doctor, about the little Esparza girl: we’ve been looking at recent cases of cot death in the area and there were a couple that caught our attention. In both cases, the pathologist recommended that social services look into the victim’s family.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘About five years.’
‘Then it must have been Maite Hernández – she was the other resident pathologist at the time. I try to avoid carrying out autopsies on small children, so she must have handled the cases you’re talking about.’ Amaia recalled San Martín’s sorrow as he contemplated the little Esparza girl’s body; how he had looked away, as if shamed by his natural feeling of revulsion. If anything, that display of humanity had made him go up in her estimation, though she’d always admired his professionalism and his ability to juggle work and, his great passion, teaching.
‘Dr Hernández was awarded a post at Universidad del País Vasco,’ he went on. ‘I’ll call her when I get back to my office. I’m sure she won’t object to speaking to you.’
Amaia thanked him and stood watching as he drove off. The street was now empty of vehicles; and the neighbours had returned to their houses for lunch, driven inside by the rain. As she gazed along the row of houses, Amaia glimpsed shadows moving behind the shutters, even the odd window cracked open despite the increasingly heavy downpour: clearly the neighbours were keeping an eye on proceedings.
Markina put up his umbrella, holding it over her.
‘I’ve been to your village more times in the past few days than in my entire life. Not that I mind.’ He grinned at her. ‘In fact, I’ve been thinking of coming here, though I’d hoped for different reasons.’
Eager to get away from the indiscreet windows overlooking Calle Giltxaurdi, she didn’t reply but set off down the street, confident that he would follow.
‘You never called me back, and yet you knew I was worried about you. Why won’t you tell me how you are? So much has been going on these past few days.’
Omitting any mention of her visit with Sarasola, she briefed him on her conclusions about Berasategui’s death, how they thought he’d obtained the drug he’d used to end his life.
