in a relative’s basement apartment with no central heating. The husband had been on benefits his whole life. According to the social worker, despite the hardships they clearly suffered, the surviving children were well looked after, as was the brother of the other deceased baby. So, no further action was taken.’
Amaia was about to speak when the pathologist added: ‘When Dr San Martín called me today, I remembered a third case, back in March 1997, towards the end of the Easter holidays. The date stuck in my mind because a train derailed in Huarte Arakil killing eighteen people, so we were inundated, and then a case of cot death came in. On this occasion too, the parents asked to see me, refusing to leave until they had spoken to me. It was pitiful. The wife was dying of cancer. They begged me to speed up the process so that they could take the body. Again, they appeared less grief-stricken than one would expect under the circumstances. Indeed, the contrast between that couple and the distraught relatives of the train-crash victims couldn’t have been starker. They might as well have been waiting to pick up their car from the garage. I checked at the time, and they had no other children so there was no cause for social services to be involved.
‘Give me an address, and I’ll send you my notes, together with the number of the social worker who dealt with the other two cases, in case you want to speak to her.’
‘One other thing, Doctor,’ Amaia said.
‘Of course.’
‘The last case you mentioned – was that a baby girl, too?’
There was a pause while the doctor checked her notes.
‘Yes, a baby girl.’
Within an hour, the social worker had dug out the files and returned Amaia’s call. Both cases had been closed with no further action taken. One family had received financial assistance, which they’d elected to discontinue. That was all the information she had.
Amaia called Jonan. To her surprise, he seemed to have switched off his mobile. Crossing the corridor, she knocked gently on the open door of the room where Zabalza and Montes were working.
‘Inspector Montes, could we have a word in my office?’
He did as she asked, closing the door behind him.
‘Deputy Inspector Etxaide has put together a report on all the families in Baztán who have lost children to SIDS. At first glance, nothing stands out, but the pathologist referred two couples to social services. During our conversation, she referred to a third case in which the parents also behaved strangely. One of the couples, she said, seemed positively elated. Another received state benefits for a while, but then signed off. I’d like you to pay both families a visit this morning; invent whatever pretext you want, but avoid any mention of babies.’
Montes sighed. ‘That’s a hard one for me, boss,’ he said, flicking through the reports. ‘Nothing makes me more angry than parents who can’t look after their kids.’
‘Be honest, Montes, everything makes you angry,’ she retorted. He flashed her a grin. ‘Take Zabalza with you, it will do him good to get out of the office – besides, he’s more tactful than you. Incidentally, have you any idea where Jonan is?’
‘It’s his afternoon off, he told me he had things to do …’
Amaia was busy jotting down what the pathologist and the social worker had told her; for a moment, she didn’t notice that Montes was still hovering by the door.
‘Fermín, was there anything else?’
He stood looking at her for a few seconds, then shook his head.
‘No, nothing.’
He opened the door and went out into the corridor, leaving Amaia with the sensation that she was missing something important.
Preoccupied, she had to admit that she was getting nowhere. She put away the documents, and, glancing at her watch, remembered James’s big meeting in Pamplona. She called his mobile and waited. He didn’t pick up. Then she switched off her computer, grabbed her coat and headed home.
Recently, Aunt Engrasi and the Golden Girls appeared to have relinquished their regular card game in favour of a joyous ritual that consisted of passing Ibai from one lap to the next and making googly eyes at him as they clucked merrily. She managed with some effort to prise away the child, who was infected by the old ladies’ laughter.
‘You’re spoiling him,’ she chided jokingly. ‘He’s having too much fun, he won’t go to sleep,’ she added, whisking the baby upstairs amid their angry protests.
She placed Ibai in his cot while she prepared his bath, slipping out of her warm jumper, and placing her holstered gun on top of the wardrobe. She’d have to find a safer place for it, she reflected. Three-year-olds were like monkeys and could climb anything. Back in Pamplona, she kept it locked in the safe, and they were planning to install a safe at Juanitaenea. Her thoughts drifted to the pallets outside the house and the stalled building work. Picking up her phone, she tried James’s mobile again; two rings only, as if he’d refused her call.
She took her time bathing Ibai; he loved being in the water, and she loved seeing her child so happy and relaxed. And yet she had to admit that James’s silence was starting to affect her ability to enjoy even this special time with their son. Once Ibai was dry and in his pyjamas, she dialled James’s number again, only to be cut off a second time. She sent a text: James. I’m worried, call me. A minute later he texted back: I’m busy.
Ibai fell asleep as soon as he had finished his bottle. She plugged in the baby monitor, then went down to sit with Ros and her aunt, who were watching television. She couldn’t concentrate on anything that wasn’t the sound of tyres on the cobblestones outside. Hearing James’s car pull up, she slipped on her coat and went outside to greet him. He was sitting motionless in the car the engine switched off and the lights out. She climbed into the passenger seat.
‘For heaven’s sake, James! I was worried.’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ he replied coolly.
‘You could have called—’
‘So could you,’ he interrupted.
Stunned by his response, she went on the defensive.
‘I called several times, but you didn’t pick up.’
‘Yeah, at six in the evening. Why didn’t you call during the day?’
She accepted his reproach, then felt a flash of anger.
‘So you saw my call but didn’t pick up. What’s going on, James?’
‘You tell me, Amaia.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
He shrugged.
‘You don’t know what I’m talking about? Fine, then there’s no problem,’ he said, making to get out of the car.
‘James,’ she restrained him with a gesture. ‘Why are you doing this to me? I don’t understand what’s going on. All I know is that you had a meeting today with representatives of the Banque National de Paris. You haven’t even told me how it went.’
‘Do
