The Legacy of the Bones

Until she was woken by the wind. The deafening gusts howled in her ears, roaring magnificently. She opened her eyes and saw her. Lucía Aguirre was staring at Amaia from the banks of the River Baztán. She was wearing her red-and-white pullover, which looked oddly festive, her left arm clasped about her waist. Lucía’s mournful gaze reached her like an enchanted bridge spanning the turbulent waters of the river; Amaia could see in the woman’s eyes all her fear, her pain, but most of all, in the despairing look she gave Amaia, her infinite sadness as she accepted an eternity of wind and solitude. Suppressing her own fear, Amaia sat up in bed, held the woman’s gaze, then nodded, encouraging her to speak. And Lucía spoke, but her words were snatched away by the wind before Amaia could make out a single sound. She seemed to be shrieking, desperate to be heard, until her strength failed her and she sank to her knees, her face hidden momentarily. When she looked up again, her lips were moving rhythmically, repeating what sounded like just one word: ‘tar … trap … rat … rat …’

‘I will,’ Amaia whispered. ‘I’ll trap the rat.’

But Lucía Aguirre was no longer looking at her. She simply shook her head, even as her face sank into the river.

6

She had spent longer than usual saying goodbye to Ibai. Holding the baby in her arms, she had dawdled, pacing from room to room, whispering sweet nothings in his ear while putting off getting dressed and leaving for work. And now, an hour later, she couldn’t shrug off the imprint of his fragile little body in her arms. She yearned for him in a way that was almost painful; she had never missed anyone like that before. His smell, his touch enchanted her, arousing in her feelings so rooted in her being they felt like memories. She thought of the soft curve of his cheek, his clear eyes – the same blue as hers – and the way he gazed at her, studying her face as if, inside him, instead of a child, there was the serene spirit of a sage.

Jonan held out a mug of milky coffee, which Amaia took from him, cupping it in her hand in an easy gesture that had become part of her routine, but which today gave her no comfort.

‘Did Ibai give you a hard night?’ he asked, noticing the dark rings around her eyes.

‘No. Well, sort of …’ she said, evasively.

Jonan had worked with Inspector Salazar long enough to know that her silences spoke volumes.

‘I have that information you asked me for yesterday,’ he said, his gaze wandering back to his desk. She seemed puzzled for an instant.

‘Oh, yes. That was quick.’

‘I said it wouldn’t be a problem.’

‘Read it to me,’ she said, inviting him to talk while she sat next to him at the desk, sipping her coffee.

He opened the document on his computer and began reading out loud.

‘Tarttalo, also known as tártaro and torto, is a mythological creature from the Basque region of Navarre, a one-eyed giant, exceptionally strong and aggressive, that feeds on sheep, young girls and shepherds, although in some references the tarttalo is portrayed as a shepherd with its own flock, but in any event, always as a devourer of Christians. There are similar references to Cyclops all over Europe, in Ancient Greece and Rome. They figure prominently in the Basque Country, among the ancient tribe of the Vascones, although accounts of them were recorded well into the twentieth century. They are solitary creatures that dwell in caves, whose locations may vary according to the area, but not in such remote places as the goddess-genie Mari. Instead they prefer to stay close to the valleys, where they can stockpile enough food to satisfy their voracious appetite for blood. They are distinguished by a single eye in the centre of the forehead, and, of course, bones, mounds of them stacked outside their cave entrances, the fruits of their depravity. I’m attaching a couple of popular tales about their encounters with shepherds, more than one of whom was gobbled up. And here’s one about a Cyclops that drowned in a well after being blinded by a shepherd – you’re going to love this:

‘In Zegama, the tarttalo was a hideous one-eyed ogre who lived in a place called Tartaloetxeta (“tarttalo’s house”), near Mount Sadar. From there he roamed the nearby valleys and mountains, stealing sheep and men that he would roast and then eat.

‘On one occasion, two brothers were walking along a path on their way home from a fair in a neighbouring village, where they had sold their sheep and had a good time. They were chatting happily when suddenly they stopped in their tracks: they had seen the tarttalo.

‘They tried to flee, but the ogre seized them both with one hand and carried them back to his cave. When he got there, he flung them into a corner and started to build a huge fire with oak branches. When he’d finished, he placed a big roasting spit over the fire. The two brothers watched, quaking with fear. The ogre picked up the fatter of the two, killed him with a single blow and stuck him on the spit. The other shepherd wept bitter tears as he witnessed the ogre devouring his brother’s body. When it had finished its gruesome meal, the ogre picked up the other lad and threw him on to a pile of sheepskins.

‘“You need fattening up,” he said contemptuously, his sadistic laughter echoing off the walls of the cave. Then he added: “But to stop you from running away, I’m going to put this ring on your finger.”

‘And with that he slipped a magic ring on to the lad’s finger. It had a human voice that cried out incessantly: “Here I am! Here I am!”

‘After that, the tarttalo fell soundly asleep.

‘Rather than wait to be fattened up and eaten by the ogre, the shepherd resolved to escape, come what may. And so, crawling over to the fire, he picked up a spit and held it over the flames until it was red-hot. Then, clutching the end firmly, he made his way over to where the tarttalo was snoring, and drove it into the one eye on his forehead.

‘The monster, crazed with pain and rage, rose to his feet, letting out savage roars and sweeping the air with his huge paws in search of the shepherd who had stabbed him in the eye.

‘But the youth dodged his assailant’s frenzied attacks, nimbly clambering over the sheep huddled inside the cave and covering himself in an animal hide to try to sneak past the ogre, who was now blocking the mouth to the cave.

‘The lad managed to get past him, but the magic ring started to cry out:

‘“Here I am! Here I am!”

‘Guided by the ring, the tarttalo, despite his vast size, bounded like a deer after his prey.

‘The young shepherd feared he would never escape. Though he ran and ran, trying to hide in the forest, each time the ring led the ogre to him with its resounding cry:

‘“Here I am! Here I am!”

‘Realising he would be caught – and terrified by the ogre’s angry howls and curses – the shepherd made a brave decision: he tore off the finger with the tell-tale ring on it and threw it down a well.

‘“Here I am! Here I am!”

‘Following the ring’s calls, the tarttalo leapt head-first down the well and drowned.’

‘You’re right,’ Amaia said, grinning. ‘It’s a great story – and I can tell you’re in your element here.’

‘Well, it isn’t all myth and fable. In a more modern context, tarttalo is the name given by some terrorist groups to a type of bomb: a box with no visible wiring, containing an LDR photoelectric cell – in effect, a single, light-sensitive eye; hence tarttalo. As soon as the box is opened, the light detonates the explosive device.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of that, but I don’t think it’s relevant. What more do you have?’

‘A small film production company called Tarttalo, plus half a dozen restaurants in various parts of the Basque Country. On the Internet I came across various references to the fables, animation shorts about ogres, silkscreens for T-shirts, a village where they bring out an effigy of the tarttalo during local fiestas. Then there are a handful of blogs that either use the name Tarttalo, or make references to it. I’ll send you the links. Ah, and it seems the spelling you mentioned, with two “t”s, is the old way of writing it. And then there are José Miguel de Barandiarán’s books on Basque mythology.’

At that moment, the telephone on Jonan’s desk rang, interrupting his explanations. He apologised, picking up the receiver and listened briefly before gesturing to her as he hung up.

‘The Commissioner wants to see you, chief.’

The Commissioner was on the phone when she entered his office. She murmured an apology and turned towards the door, but he raised his hand, motioning for her to wait.

He hung up and sat staring at her. Amaia assumed he was being leant on by the Archbishop, and was about to tell him they hadn’t come up with anything yet, when he took her by surprise.

‘You aren’t going to believe this – that was Judge Markina. He called to tell me that the man being held for the murder of Lucía Aguirre has been in touch to tell him that if you go to see him in prison, he’ll tell you where to find the victim’s body.’

Amaia drove out to Santa Lucía hill, where the new Pamplona prison was situated, flashed her badge at security and was immediately shown into an office where the prison governor, whom she had met before, was waiting for her. So too were Judge Markina and a legal secretary. As she entered, the judge rose to greet her.

‘Inspector, I’ve not had the pleasure of greeting you in person, as I was appointed when you were on maternity leave; thank you for coming. This morning Quiralte asked to see the governor. He told him that if you agreed to see him he would tell you where Lucía Aguirre’s body is.’

‘And do you think he will?’ she asked.

‘The truth is, I don’t know what to think. Quiralte is a cocky individual who bragged about his crime then refused to say where he had hidden the body. According to the director, he’s like a pig in clover. He eats well, sleeps well, is sociable and active.’

‘He seems in his element,’ agreed the governor.

‘So this could be a trick, or perhaps he means it. Either way, he insisted it had to be you and no one else.’

Amaia recalled the day they had arrested him and the way he had stared at the two-way mirror while another officer was interrogating him.

‘Yes, he asked to talk to me when we arrested him as well, but the reasons he gave seemed like a joke. Back then I was about to go on leave, so he was questioned by the team that had been working on the case.’

Quiralte had been waiting for ten minutes when Amaia and the judge entered the interview room. He was sitting slumped in an upright chair by the table, his prison uniform unbuttoned halfway to the waist. He gave a forced smile that revealed whitish, overly long gums.

‘The return of El Macho, indeed,’ thought Amaia, recalling Jonan’s comment the day they had first arrested him.

Quiralte waited for them to install themselves on the other side of the table, then sat up straight and proffered his hand to Amaia.

‘So you’ve finally condescended to see me, Inspector. It’s been a long wait, but I must say it’s worth it. How are you? How’s your baby boy?’

Amaia ignored his outstretched hand. After a few moments he lowered his arm.

‘Señor Quiralte, the only reason I came here today is because you promised to reveal the whereabouts of Lucía Aguirre’s remains.’

‘As you wish, Inspector, you’re the boss, but the truth is I thought you might be a little friendlier, seeing as I’m helping raise your profile as star cop,’ he said, grinning.

‘Señor Quiralte—’ Markina began.

‘Shut up,’ Quiralte hissed. Markina looked daggers at him. ‘If you don’t stay quiet, your honour, I won’t say a word. In fact, what the hell are you doing here? Wasn’t I clear enough about only wanting to speak to Inspector Salazar? You should be grateful I let you stay.’

Judge Markina pulled his arms away from the table, stiffening as though ready to pounce on the prisoner if necessary. Amaia could almost hear his muscles crack with indignation; nevertheless, he remained silent.

Quiralte’s wolfish grin returned, and, ignoring Markina, he addressed Amaia once more.

‘I’ve been waiting a long time, four whole months. I wanted to get this over with sooner – it’s entirely your fault that the situation dragged on, Inspector. As I’m sure you know, I asked to speak to you when I was arrested. If you hadn’t refused, you would have that slut’s body by now, and I wouldn’t have been forced to rot away in prison all this time.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ said Amaia.

Quiralte shook his head, grinning. It occurred to her that he was enjoying himself.

‘So?’ she asked.

‘Do you like to drink patxaran, Inspector?’

‘Not all that much.’

‘No, you don’t seem like that kind of woman. I’ll bet you didn’t drink at all while you were pregnant. A wise choice, otherwise you’d end up with kids like me.’ He guffawed. ‘And you’re breastfeeding now, right?’ he added.

Amaia concealed her surprise by feigning irritation, turning towards the door and pushing her chair back to stand up.

‘Hold your horses, Inspector, I’m getting there. My father used to brew patxaran at home, you see. It was nothing special, but it was drinkable. He worked for a well-known liqueur company in a small village called Azanza. When the sloe harvest was finished, employees were allowed to pick any leftover berries. My father used to take me with him out to the countryside. Those blackthorn trees are lethal, if you prick your finger it always goes septic and the pain lasts for days. I thought the ideal place for her would be among those bushes.’

‘You buried her there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right,’ said Judge Markina, ‘you’ll be coming with us to point out the exact spot.’

‘I’m not going anywhere! The last thing I want is to see that bitch again, she’ll be disgusting by now, anyway. I can tell you which field she’s in, but the rest is up to you. I’ve kept my side of the bargain and, once this is over, I intend to go back to my cell to rest.’ He leant back in his chair again, beaming. ‘I’m feeling quite tired after all this excitement,’ he said, staring straight at the judge.

‘That’s not how this works,’ said Markina. ‘We didn’t come here so that you could play cat and mouse with us. You’ll show us the place in situ. Verbal directions could make the search difficult. In addition, it’s been a while, so there won’t be any visible signs. Even you might have difficulty remembering the exact spot.’

Quiralte interrupted Markina’s monologue.

‘Oh, for God’s sake! This guy’s a bore. Give me a pen and paper and I’ll show you, Inspector.’

Amaia handed them to him, while Markina carried on protesting:

‘A clumsy drawing doesn’t make a reliable map; in a plantation all trees look alike.’

Amaia watched Quiralte, who gave the judge a knowing smile, then started to write.

‘Don’t worry, your honour,’ he said patronisingly, ‘I’m not doing a drawing.’ And he handed them the piece of paper with a brief series of numbers and letters, which left Markina puzzling.

‘What on earth is this?’

‘Coordinates, your honour,’ Amaia explained.

‘Longitude and latitude, your honour – didn’t I tell you I was in the Foreign Legion?’ Quiralte added jauntily. ‘Or maybe you’d prefer a little drawing?’

Azanza turned out to be a small village on the outskirts of Estella, whose main industry was devoted to producing the sloe-flavoured liqueur called patxaran. By the time they managed to summon the whole team and find the location, it was growing late. The fading light seemed to be held for an instant by the millions of little white flowers, that, despite the remoteness of spring, adorned the tree branches and gave the impression of a palace corridor rather than a burial spot improvised by a cruel brute.

Amaia looked carefully around her while the forensic team installed spotlights and a tent, which she had insisted they put up regardless of the hurry they were in; although there was no real chance of rain, she didn’t want to risk clues at the site of the grave being destroyed by a downpour.

Judge Markina came over and stood next to her.

‘You look sceptical, Inspector. Do you doubt that we’ll find the body there?’

‘No, I’m pretty certain we will,’ she said.

‘Then what is bothering you? … Allow me,’ he said, raising his hand towards her face. She shrank back in surprise. ‘You’ve got something in your hair.’ He picked out a little white flower and held it to his nose.

Amaia saw Jonan glance at her from the far side of the tent.

‘Tell me, what doesn’t convince you?’

‘Quiralte’s behaviour doesn’t convince me. He’s a textbook thug, court-martialled from the army, a drunk, arrogant, violent, and yet …’

‘I know, I also find it hard to understand what made a charming woman like Lucía Aguirre associate with a man like that.’

‘Well, that I can help you with. She fits the profile perfectly. Sweet-natured, altruistic, devoted to helping others, pious and empathic to a fault. She was a catechist, helped out at a soup kitchen, babysat her grandchildren, regularly visited her elderly mother … but she was single. For a woman like that, life has no meaning unless she is caring for others, even though at the same time she dreams of someone who will come and take care of her. She yearned to feel like a woman; not a sister, a mother, or a friend, but a woman. Her mistake was to believe that to achieve this she needed a man at any price.’

‘Well, Inspector, without wishing to appear sexist, I don’t see anything wrong with a woman needing a man by her side in order to feel whole, in matters of love, at any rate.’

Jonan stopped taking notes. Keeping his head down, he grinned, his attention split between the technicians digging the pit and his superior.

‘Your honour, Quiralte isn’t a man. He’s a specimen of the male sex. There’s a big difference.’

The diggers raised the alarm as they started to uncover some black plastic sheeting. Amaia approached the grave, but not without turning to Markina to say:

‘I’m sure Lucía Aguirre also realised that, which is why she reported him. Too late.’

When the bundle was completely exposed, it was clear the murderer had placed the woman’s body inside two bin liners, top and tail, which he had then fastened at the waist with Sellotape. The tape had come unstuck and was fluttering in the breeze, creating an eerie sensation of movement, as if the victim were writhing in her grave, clamouring to be let out. A sudden gust revealed the victim’s red-and-white pullover among the folds of the bag. Amaia recognised it from her dream. A shiver ran down her spine.

‘I want this photographed from every angle,’ she ordered. While waiting for the photographers to do their work, she stepped back a few paces, crossed herself, and, lowering her head, said another prayer for the victim.

Judge Markina stood gaping at her, as Dr San Martín approached.

‘It’s just another way of distancing oneself from the dead,’ he murmured to Markina, who looked away, shamefaced.

Stepping over the grave, Dr San Martín took a pair of nail scissors from his bag, then glanced at Markina, who gave a nod of approval. With a single movement, he snipped the plastic lengthways, exposing the top half of the body.

The corpse lay fully outstretched, tilted slightly on its right side. Decomposition was relatively advanced, although somewhat delayed by the cold, dry soil. The flesh looked sunken and shrivelled, above all on the face.

‘Fortunately, because of the recent cold weather, the degree of decomposition is less than you’d expect after five months,’ San Martín explained. ‘At first glance, the corpse presents a deep gash to the throat. Bloodstains on the pullover indicate the victim was still alive when this was done to her. The wound is deep and straight, indicating an extremely sharp blade and a clear intent to cause death. There is no sign of hesitation; what’s more, the wound travels from left to right, suggesting her assailant was right-handed. Blood loss was extreme, so that despite being well wrapped up in relatively dry ground, there is abundant evidence of insect activity in the initial phase.’

Amaia approached the head of the grave and crouched down. Tilting her head slightly to one side, she remained like that for a few moments, as if she were feeling dizzy.

Judge Markina looked at her with concern. He moved towards her, but Jonan restrained him with a gesture, then whispered something in his ear.

‘That mark on her eyebrow, is it from a blow?’ asked Amaia.

‘Well spotted,’ said San Martín, beaming with the pride of a teacher who has trained his pupil well, ‘and it would appear to be post-mortem, because there’s an indentation but no bleeding.’

‘Look,’ said Amaia, pointing, ‘there seem to be others all over her head.’

‘Yes.’ San Martín nodded, leaning closer. ‘There’s some hair missing here, which isn’t due to decomposition.’

‘Jonan, take a photograph from here, will you?’ asked Amaia.

Markina crouched down beside Amaia, so close that he brushed her with his jacket sleeve.

He murmured an apology, then asked San Martín if the body had been there the entire time or if it had been brought there immediately after death. San Martín said he thought it had, explaining that the maggots’ remains corresponded to early stage soil fauna typical of the area, but that he would only know for sure when he had carried out all the relevant tests.

Markina stood up and walked over to the judicial clerk, who was busy taking notes at a discreet distance.

Amaia remained kneeling for a few seconds, puzzling over the body.

Jonan gazed expectantly at her.

‘Can we take it away now?’ one of the technicians asked.

‘Not yet,’ said Amaia, raising her hand without looking round. ‘Your honour,’ she called out.

Markina turned towards her and obediently made his way back.

‘Quiralte said that if he’d spoken to me sooner he wouldn’t have had to rot in jail for four months, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, he did, although having confessed to the crime, I’m not quite sure how he imagined that would happen.’

‘I think I do …’ she whispered, pensive.

Markina held out his hand, which she frowned at, rising to her feet and circling the grave.

‘Doctor, could you cut through more of the bag, please?’

‘Certainly.’

He went to work with the scissors again, this time opening the lower half of the bag down to the knees.

The skirt Lucía Aguirre had been wearing with her striped pullover appeared hitched up, and her underclothes were missing.

‘I assumed we would find evidence of sexual aggression – it’s common in cases like these. I wouldn’t be surprised if it occurred post-mortem,’ said the pathologist.

‘Yes, like a furious unleashing of all his fantasies – but that’s not what I’m looking for.’

Gingerly, she peeled away the bag on either side.

‘Jonan, come here a minute. Keep the plastic taut so the mud doesn’t get in.’

Jonan nodded and passed the camera to one of the technicians. He knelt down and clasped the two bits of plastic firmly in both hands.

Crouching beside him, Amaia fumbled for the victim’s right shoulder, slowly feeling her way down the arm, which was partially obscured by the body leaning slightly on to its side. Using both hands, she dug her fingers underneath the body at the level of the bicep, and pulled gently to reveal the arm.

Jonan gave a start, lost his balance and fell on to his backside, still clinging to the plastic sheet.

The arm appeared to have been severed from the elbow in a clean, neat incision; the absence of any blood made it easy to see the tip of the arm bone and the atrophied flesh surrounding it.