are used to summon the spirits of the dead – as a result, desecrations of tombs and niches have increased significantly. A year ago, during a routine drugs search, a car was intercepted on its way to Paris containing fifteen human skulls stolen from various cemeteries along the Costa del Sol. Apparently, they fetch a good price on the black market.’
‘So, these bones could have come from anywhere,’ ventured San Martín.
‘No, not from anywhere,’ Jonan said, rejoining the group. ‘I’m convinced they were stolen here in Arizkun, or in one of the surrounding villages. It’s true that human bones are used in many religious rituals, but mairu-beso are limited to the Spanish and French Basque Country, and Navarre. As soon as Dr San Martín has dated the bones, we’ll know where to look.’
He turned round and walked towards the far end of the nave, while Amaia gazed after him bemused. She had known Jonan Etxaide for three years, and in the last two her respect and admiration for him had grown in leaps and bounds. Jonan had joined the police force after finishing his studies – he held a twin degree in anthropology and archaeology – and although he wasn’t a typical cop, Amaia appreciated his somewhat romantic viewpoint and his discreet, non-confrontational approach. She was all the more surprised, therefore, by his somewhat stubborn insistence about where to steer the case. Concealing her unease, she said goodbye to the pathologist, still puzzling over the way Iriarte had nodded while Jonan spoke, the two of them casting anxious glances at the walls of the chapel.
She could hear Ibai as soon as she turned the key in the lock. Leaning back against the door to close it, she hurried upstairs, slipping off her coat. Guided by his urgent cries, she burst into the bedroom to find her son screaming his lungs out in his cot. She glanced around, a knot of anger clenching her stomach.
‘James,’ she yelled, as she lifted the baby out of the cot. He walked in carrying a feeding bottle.
‘How could you leave him to cry like that? He was desperate. What on earth were you doing?’
James stopped in his tracks, holding up the bottle.
‘He’s fine, Amaia. He’s crying because he’s hungry, which is what I was trying to deal with. It’s time for his feed, you know how punctual he is. I waited a few minutes, but when you didn’t arrive, he started getting louder …’
Amaia bit her tongue. She knew James’ words weren’t meant as a reproach, but they felt like a slap in the face. She turned away, sat down on the rocking chair and lifted the baby to her.
‘Throw that muck away,’ she ordered.
She heard him sigh good-naturedly as he walked out.
Grilles, railings, and French windows: the flat, three-storey façade of the Archbishop’s palace, whose weather-worn oak door gave on to Plaza Santa María. Inside, a priest dressed in a smart suit and clerical collar introduced himself as the Archbishop’s secretary, then led them up a wide staircase to the first floor. After ushering them into a room, he asked them to wait while he announced their arrival, then disappeared noiselessly behind a hanging tapestry. Within seconds he was back.
‘This way, please.’
The Archbishop received them in a magnificent room, which Jonan estimated must have spanned the entire length of the first floor. Four windows, which opened on to balconies with close-set railings, were closed against the bitter morning cold of Pamplona. The Archbishop greeted them standing beside his desk, proffering a firm handshake as the police commissioner made the introductions.
‘Monsignor Landero, this is Inspector Salazar who heads the murder squad at the Navarre regional police, and Deputy Inspector Etxaide. I believe you’ve already met Father Lokin, the parish priest at Arizkun.’
Amaia noticed a middle-aged man standing gazing out of the nearest balcony window. He wore a dark suit that made the secretary’s look shoddy in comparison.
‘Allow me to introduce Father Sarasola. He is attending this meeting in an advisory capacity.’
Sarasola walked over, shook hands with them while staring straight at Amaia.
‘I’ve heard a great deal about you, Inspector.’
Amaia didn’t reply, but bobbed her head by way of greeting, before taking a seat. Sarasola returned to the window where he stood with his back to the room.
Monsignor Landero was one of those people who can’t keep their hands still while they speak. Picking up a pen, he began to twirl it in his pale, slender fingers, until all eyes were focused on him. However, to everyone’s astonishment, Father Sarasola spoke first.
‘I’m grateful for your interest in this case, which both involves and concerns us,’ he said, turning to face the company, without moving from the window. ‘I’m aware that you went to Arizkun yesterday when the, shall we say “attack”, took place, so I assume you’ve been informed about the spate of previous incidents. All the same, permit me to run through them once more with you. Two weeks ago, in the dead of night, exactly like yesterday, somebody broke into the chapel through the sacristy door. It’s an ordinary door with a simple lock and no alarm, so it didn’t present much of a problem. However, instead of behaving like common thieves, pilfering money from the donation box, the intruders with a single blow, split in two the baptismal font: a work of art over four centuries old. Last Sunday night, they broke in again, took an axe to one of the pews, reducing it to a pile of fragments the size of my hand. And yesterday they desecrated the temple a third time, setting fire to the altar, and placing beneath it that atrocious offering.’
Amaia noticed the parish priest fidgeting anxiously in his seat, while Deputy Inspector Etxaide wore the same frown she had seen the morning before.
‘We live in turbulent times,’ Sarasola went on, ‘and of course, more often than we would like, churches suffer acts of desecration, most of which go unreported to avoid any copycat crime. Although the way some of them are staged is quite spectacular, few possess such a dangerous element as in this latest case.’
Amaia listened carefully, suppressing the urge to interrupt. Try as she might, she couldn’t understand what importance all this had, beyond the destruction of a four-hundred-year-old liturgical object. And yet she was curious to see what direction this unusual meeting would take; the attendance of the city’s highest police and Church authorities was an indication of how seriously they viewed these incidents. And this priest, Father Sarasola, was seemingly in control, despite the presence of the Archbishop, to whom he scarcely paid any attention.
‘We believe that these acts demonstrate a hatred towards the Church based on a misinterpretation of historical concepts. The fact that the most recent attack entailed the use of human remains leaves us in no doubt as to the complexity of the case. Needless to say, we count on your discretion; in our experience, nothing good ever comes of giving publicity to such matters. Not to mention the concern this would arouse among the parishioners of San Juan Bautista, who are shrewd enough to understand the significance of these attacks and liable to be very disturbed by this sort of thing.’
The Commissioner took the floor:
‘You have my assurance that we shall proceed with the utmost care and discretion. Inspector Salazar’s abilities as a detective and her knowledge of the area make her the best person to lead this investigation; she will look into the case with her team.’
Amaia glanced uneasily at her boss, barely managing to stifle a protest.
‘I’m sure you
