Acknowledgements
Exclusive extract from Offering to the Storm
If you enjoyed The Legacy of the Bones, read the first book in the Baztan trilogy …
About the Author
By the Same Author
Following the line traced by rainwater dripping from the eaves, the grave was easy to find. The figure knelt, fumbling among its clothes for a trowel and a small pick to scrape off the hard surface of the dark soil. It crumbled into soft, moist clods that gave off a rich smell of wood and moss.
A careful scraping of a few centimetres revealed blackened shreds of decayed cloth mixed with the earth.
The figure tugged away the cloth, still recognisable as a cot blanket, to reveal the oilskin enshrouding the body. Only fragments of the rope securing the bundle remained; where it had been pulled tight a deep mark was left on the canvas. Pushing aside the shreds of rope, the figure groped blindly for the edge of the cloth, and could feel it had been wrapped round several times. Tearing at the end of the bundle, the shroud fell open as though cut with a knife.
The baby lay buried face down, cradled in the earth; the bones, like the oilcloth itself, appeared well preserved, although stained by the black earth of Baztán. Stretching out a hand that almost completely covered the tiny form, the figure pressed the baby’s chest further into the earth and pulled the right arm out of its socket. As it came loose, the collarbone snapped with a soft crack. It sounded like a sigh from the tomb, a lament for the sacrilege. Suddenly uneasy, the shadowy figure recoiled and stood up, tucked the bones under its clothes, then cast one last glance at the body before scuffing the soil back into the grave.
The atmosphere in the courthouse was stifling. The damp from rain-soaked overcoats was starting to evaporate, mixing with the breath of the hundreds of people thronging the corridors outside the various courtrooms. Amaia undid her jacket as she greeted Lieutenant Padua, who made his way towards her through the waiting crowd, after speaking briefly to the woman accompanying him and ushering her into the courtroom.
‘Good to see you, Inspector,’ he said. ‘How are you? I wasn’t sure you’d make it here today,’ he added, pointing to her swollen belly.
Amaia raised a hand to her midriff, heavy from the late stages of pregnancy.
‘Well, she seems to be behaving herself for the moment. Have you seen Johana’s mother?’
‘Yes, she’s pretty nervous. She’s inside with her family. They’ve just called from downstairs to tell me the van transporting Jasón Medina has arrived,’ he said, heading for the lift.
Amaia entered the courtroom and sat down on one of the benches at the back. From there she was able to glimpse Johana’s mother, dressed in mourning and considerably thinner than at her daughter’s funeral. As though sensing her presence, the woman turned to look, greeting her with a brief nod. Amaia tried unsuccessfully to smile as she contemplated the haggard features of the woman, who was tormented by the knowledge that she had been powerless to protect her daughter from the monster she herself had brought into their home. As the court clerk began to call out the names of the witnesses, Amaia couldn’t help noticing the woman’s face stiffen when she heard her husband’s name.
‘Jasón Medina,’ the clerk repeated. ‘Jasón Medina.’
A uniformed officer entered the courtroom, approached the clerk and whispered something in his ear. He in turn leaned over to speak to the judge, who listened to what he said then nodded, before calling the prosecution and defence barristers to the bench. He spoke to them briefly then rose to his feet.
‘The trial is adjourned; if necessary, you will be summoned again.’ And without another word, he left the courtroom.
Johana’s mother cried out, turning to Amaia for an explanation.
‘No!’ she screamed. ‘Why?’
The women with her tried helplessly to comfort her.
Another officer walked over to Amaia.
‘Inspector Salazar, Lieutenant Padua has asked if you would go down to the holding cells.’
As she stepped out of the lift, she saw a group of police officers gathered outside the toilet door. The guard accompanying her motioned to her to enter. Inside, a prison officer and a policeman stood propped against the wall, their faces distraught. Padua was leaning into one of the cubicles, his feet at the edge of a pool of still fresh blood seeping under the partition walls. When he saw the inspector arrive, he stepped aside.
‘He told the guard he needed to use the toilet. As you can see, he was handcuffed, yet he managed to slit his own throat. It all happened very fast, the officer didn’t move from here, heard him cough and went in, but there was nothing he could do.’
Amaia went in to survey the scene. Jasón Medina was sitting on the toilet, head tilted back. His throat was gaping from a deep, dark gash. His shirtfront was drenched in blood, which oozed like red mucus between his legs, staining everything in its path. His body still radiated warmth, and the air was tainted with the smell of recent death.
‘What did he use?’ asked Amaia, who couldn’t see any object.
‘A box cutter. He dropped it as the strength drained out of him. It’s in the next-door toilet,’ he said, pushing open the door to the adjacent cubicle.
‘How did he get it through security? The metal would have set the alarm off.’
‘He didn’t. Look,’ said Padua, pointing. ‘See that piece of duct tape on the handle? Somebody went to a lot of trouble to hide the cutter in here, no doubt behind the cistern. All Medina had to do was peel it off.’
Amaia sighed.
‘And there’s more,’ said Padua, with a look of distaste. ‘This was sticking out of his pocket,’ he said, holding up a white envelope in his gloved hand.
‘A suicide note?’ ventured Amaia.
‘Not exactly,’ said Padua, handing her a pair of gloves and the envelope. ‘It’s addressed to you.’
‘To me?’ Amaia frowned.
She pulled on the gloves and took the envelope.
‘May I?’
‘Go ahead.’
The adhesive strip opened easily without her needing to tear the paper. Inside was a card; in the middle of it a single word was printed.
‘Tarttalo.’
Amaia
