who were present during my interview with Berasategui; they had already been suspended. He lives with his parents, who didn’t object to showing us his room. In it, we found a plastic bag from a chemist’s on the other side of town. When we showed the pharmacist a photograph of the guard, he remembered him instantly, because he wasn’t often asked to supply that particular sedative in liquid form. He checked the prescription, as well as Berasategui’s name – which hadn’t been struck off the medical register. And since everything appeared to be in order, he had no choice but to dispense the drug. CCTV footage from the prison clearly shows the guard outside the cell, doubtless waiting for Berasategui to take the drug so that he could retrieve the empty vial. We’ve put out a search warrant on him, and have checked that he isn’t with any of his relatives. No news on that front for the moment.’
They had reached the old covered market. All at once, Markina stopped dead in his tracks, obliging her to do the same in order to remain under the shelter of his umbrella. He moved forward a couple of steps and then stopped again, grinning. She couldn’t decide if he was teasing her or incredibly happy to see her; he gazed at her in silence for a few seconds, until, finally overwhelmed, she lowered her eyes, only long enough to collect herself, and said:
‘What is it?’
‘When I complained just now that you hadn’t been in touch, I wasn’t referring to how the investigation was going.’
She lowered her gaze once more, smiling this time. When she looked up again she was back in control.
‘Well, that’s all the news you’ll get from me,’ she retorted.
His smile faded. ‘Do you remember what I told you when we left Berasategui’s apartment that night?’
Amaia didn’t reply.
‘My feelings haven’t changed, and they aren’t going to.’
He was standing very close. His nearness aroused her; his voice, merging with the vivid memory of her dream the night before, instantly evoked the warmth of his lips, his mouth, his embrace …
When a large cultural foundation chose to sponsor an artist’s work, their decision was based on advice from their art and finance consultants, who would take into account the artist’s talent and the quality of their work, as well as their likely future success, and the long-term cost effectiveness of the investment. Thanks to glowing reviews of James’s exhibition at the Guggenheim in the prestigious journals Art News and Art in America, the prices his work could command had risen. Now he was on his way to a meeting in Pamplona with representatives of the Banque National de Paris Foundation, hopeful that the outcome would be a major commission.
Adjusting the rear-view mirror, James grinned at his reflection in the glass. Heading for the motorway, his route took him through Txokoto towards Giltxaurdi Bridge. As he drove down the street near the old market, he saw Amaia sheltering under an umbrella held aloft by a man, the two of them in conversation. Slowing down, he lowered the window to call out to her. But something at once imperceptible and obvious made his voice freeze on his lips. The man was leaning in towards her as he spoke, oblivious to everything around him, while she listened, eyes lowered. It was raining and they were huddled beneath the umbrella, inches apart, and yet it wasn’t their proximity that troubled him, but rather the expression in her eyes when she looked up: they were shining with defiance, the challenge of a contest. James knew that was the one thing Amaia couldn’t resist, because she was a warrior governed by the goddess Palas: Amaia Salazar never surrendered without a fight.
James closed the car window, and drove on without stopping. The smile had vanished from his face.
She swallowed a mouthful of cold coffee, screwing up her face in disgust as she banished the cup to the edge of her desk. She had eaten nothing since breakfast; the vision of Elena Ochoa, slumped over in a pool of her own blood, had taken away her appetite, as well as something else: the slim hope that Elena might have eventually overcome her fears and talked. If only she had told her where the sect’s house was located … She sensed it played a vital role.
Elena’s death, coming on the heels of Berasategui’s, had confounded her. She felt that events were slipping through her fingers, as if she were trying to hold back the River Baztán. In front of her on the desk was a pile of papers: Deputy Inspector Etxaide’s report on cot deaths in the area; a transcript of her conversation with Valentín Esparza in his cell; Berasategui’s autopsy report; a few sheets of A4 filled with her scribbled notes. Unfortunately, after digesting the contents she was left with the impression that nothing stacked up: she was at an impasse, rudderless. She skimmed through the sheets of paper, frustrated.
She checked the time on her watch: coming up to four o’clock. San Martín had called her an hour earlier to give her the number of the pathologist who had carried out the autopsies on the babies mentioned in Jonan’s report. He had briefed the woman and arranged that Amaia would call her at four o’clock. She picked up the telephone, waiting until the last second before dialling the number.
If the doctor was surprised by her punctuality, she didn’t mention it.
‘Dr San Martín told me you are interested in two particular cases. I remember them well, but I’ve dug out my notes, to be on the safe side. Two healthy female babies, with nothing in their autopsies to suggest they died from anything other than natural causes – if we consider death from SIDS to be a natural cause. Both the doctors who signed the respective death certificates entered SIDS as the cause. One of the babies was sleeping on her front, the other on her back. In both cases, my misgivings were caused by the parents’ behaviour.’
‘Their behaviour?’
‘I met with one couple at the request of the father. He became threatening, told me that he’d read about pathologists holding on to people’s organs, and that his daughter had better be intact after the autopsy. I tried to reassure him that organs were only removed in cases where the family had given their consent, or if a person left their body to research. But what shocked me most was when he declared that he knew how much a dead child’s organs could fetch on the black market. I told him that if he meant donor organs then he was mistaken; they would need to be removed under strict medical conditions immediately post-mortem. He insisted he wasn’t referring to the black market in donor organs, but in dead bodies. His wife tried to shut him up, she kept apologising to me, and blaming his outburst on the trauma they were going through. But I believed he was serious; despite being an ignorant oaf, he knew what he was talking about. The reason why I contacted social services was primarily because I felt sorry for their other child, the baby’s older brother, sitting in the waiting room, listening to his father mouth off like that. I didn’t think it would do any harm if they took a look at the family.
‘The other couple’s behaviour was also shocking, but in a completely different way. When I walked into the waiting room at the Institute of Forensic Medicine to tell them we would soon be releasing their daughter’s body, far from grieving they looked positively euphoric. I’ve seen many responses in my time, ranging from sorrow through to utter indifference, but when I left that room and heard the husband assure his wife that from then on their fortunes would improve, I confess I was shocked. I thought they might be words of reassurance, but when I turned to look at them, they were smiling. Not in a forced way, as if they were trying to be strong, but because they were happy.’ The doctor paused as she remembered. ‘I’ve seen deeply religious people respond to the death of their loved ones in a similar way, because they believe they are going to heaven, but in those cases, the dominant emotion is resignation. This couple weren’t
