Her handsome boy was getting frustrated, and she knew she was to blame. Softly, her voice laced with affection, she protested: ‘How can you even ask me that? Of course I care, James – you mean more to me than anything in the world.’
He looked at her, struggling to keep a stern face as the expression in his eyes melted. He smiled weakly.
‘It went okay,’ he conceded.
‘Oh, come on! Just okay, or really well?’
He beamed. ‘It went well, incredibly well.’
She flung her arms around him, kneeling on her seat so that she could hold him tight. They kissed. Just then, her phone rang. James pulled a face as she fumbled for it in her pocket.
‘I have to take this, it’s the police station,’ she said, freeing herself from the embrace.
‘Inspector Salazar, Elena Ochoa’s daughter just called. I wouldn’t have bothered you, but she insisted, she says it’s urgent … I’ve texted you her number.’
‘I need to make a quick call,’ she told James, clambering out of the car. Moving out of earshot, she dialled the number. Marilena Ochoa answered immediately.
‘Inspector, I’m in Elizondo. After everything that’s happened, we decided to stay the night. When I went to bed just now, I found a letter from my mother under the pillow.’ The young woman’s voice, which had sounded strong, buoyed by a sense of urgency, gave way as she started to cry. ‘I can’t believe it, but it seems you’re right and she did take her own life … she left a note,’ she said, overcome with grief. ‘I did everything I could to help her, I did what the doctors said, I played down her paranoia, her fears … And she left a note. But not for me, for you.’ The young woman broke down. Realising she would get no more sense out of her, Amaia waited until the person she could hear in the background trying to console Marilena came on the phone.
‘Inspector, this is Luis, Marilena’s boyfriend. Please come and get the letter.’
James had stepped out of the car. She walked over and stood looking up at him.
‘James, it’s within walking distance, I need to pick up a document here in Elizondo. I can walk there,’ she added, as if to prove that she wouldn’t be long.
He leaned forward to kiss her, and without saying a word entered the house.
Winter had returned with a vengeance after a lull of a few hours. She regretted not picking up her scarf and gloves on her way out as she felt the cold north wind blow through the empty streets of Elizondo. Turning up the collar of her coat, she clasped it about her neck and set off at a brisk pace towards Elena Ochoa’s house. She rang the doorbell and waited, shivering in the wind. The boyfriend opened the door, but refrained from asking her in.
‘She’s exhausted,’ he explained. ‘She took a sleeping pill, and it’s knocked her out.’
‘I understand,’ said Amaia. ‘This is a terrible blow …’
He handed her a long white envelope, which she could see was unopened. Her name was written on the front. She slipped it into her pocket, noticing the look of relief on the young man’s face as he watched it disappear.
‘I’ll keep you informed.’
‘If that letter is what we think it is, please don’t bother – she’s suffered enough.’
Amaia followed the bend in the river, drawn by the orange lights in the square, which gave a false impression of warmth on that cold, dark night. She walked past the Lamia fountain, which only gushed water when it rained, and carried on walking until she came to the town hall, where she paused to run the fingers of one hand over the smooth surface of the botil harri. Her other hand was still clutching the envelope in her pocket; it gave off an unpleasant heat, as though contained within were the last flicker of the author’s life.
The wind swept through the square in great gusts, making it impossible for her to stop and read the letter. She headed down Calle Jaime Urrutia, hesitating beneath each streetlamp looking for a sheltered spot. She didn’t want to read it at home. Finding nowhere, she crossed the bridge, where the wind’s roar vied with the noise of the weir. Reaching Hostal Trinkete, she turned right and made her way towards the only place where she knew she would enjoy complete solitude. She felt in her pocket for the silky cord her father had fastened to the key all those years ago. When she inserted it in the lock, the key turned halfway but would go no further. She tried again, even though she realised Ros had changed the lock on the bakery door. Surprised and pleased at her sister’s initiative, she slipped the now useless key back in her pocket, her fingers brushing the envelope as she did so. It seemed to be calling to her, like a living creature. Walking into the wind, she set off at a brisk pace towards her aunt’s house, but instead of going in, she climbed into her car and switched on the overhead light.
I told you they would find out, and they did. I’ve always been careful, but I was right: there’s no protection from them. Somehow they’ve put it inside me, I can feel it tearing at my guts. Like a fool, I thought it was heartburn, but as the hours go by I realise what’s happening, it is devouring me, killing me, so I may as well tell you.
It’s a rundown old farmhouse, with brown walls and a dark roof. I haven’t been there for years, but they used to keep the shutters closed. You’ll find it on the road to Orabidea, in the middle of a huge meadow, the only one of its kind in the area. There are no trees, nothing grows there, and you can only see it from the bend in the road.
It’s a black house, I don’t mean the colour, but what’s inside. I won’t bother warning you not to go poking around there, because if you are who you claim to be, if you survived the fate they had in store for you, they’ll find you anyway.
May God protect you,
Elena Ochoa
The incongruous ring of her phone in the enclosed space of the car made her jump. She dropped Elena Ochoa’s letter, which fell between the pedals. Nervous and confused, she answered the call, leaning forward to try to reach the piece of paper.
She could sense the weariness in Inspector Iriarte’s voice at the end of what for him had been an arduous day. Amaia glanced at her watch, as she realised that she’d completely forgotten about Iriarte. It was gone eleven.
‘They’ve just finished doing Elena Ochoa’s post-mortem. I swear, I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, Inspector.’ Amaia heard him take a deep breath, then exhale slowly. ‘San Martín has recorded the cause of death as suicide by ingestion of sharp objects – talk about an understatement! But what else could he put? In all his years as a professional, he’d never seen the like either,’ he said, giving a nervous laugh.
She felt the beginnings of a migraine and she started to shiver, vaguely aware that these physical sensations were related to Elena’s letter, and to Inspector Iriarte’s seeming inability to explain himself.
‘Take me through it, Inspector,’ she ordered.
‘You saw the amount of walnut shavings she spewed up. Well, there were traces in the stomach too,
