The Legacy of the Bones

Their anticipation gave way to astonishment.

‘You mean he had an accomplice?’

‘I’m not sure yet, but this case resembles another one I worked on in an advisory role, where a possible second culprit was also suspected. A different force was in charge of that investigation and so comparing the different elements and evidence will be a more complex and time-consuming process. We’ve been given the green light, but this could take hours, possibly days, I can’t say for sure. I know this has been very hard for you, but your mother is no longer in a frozen field, she’s here. And the reason why she’s here is so that she can help us to solve the crime of which she herself was the victim. I’ll be in there with her, and I promise you that no one respects the smallest detail she might be able to tell us more than these pathologists. Believe me, they are the voice of the victims.’

She could tell from the look of acceptance on their faces that she had convinced them. Whilst she didn’t need their consent, there was nothing to be gained from having irate relatives getting in the way of her work.

‘At least we’ll be able to hold a Mass for her soul,’ murmured Marta.

‘Yes. That’ll do you good. You know she would have liked that.’ Amaia proffered a firm hand, which both women shook. ‘I’ll do my best to speed things up. I promise to call you.’

Amaia swapped her coat for a gown and entered the autopsy room. Dr San Martín, stooped over a stainless steel worktop, was showing something on the computer to a couple of assistants.

‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Or should that be good afternoon?’

‘For us it’s good afternoon, we’ve already had lunch,’ replied one of the assistants.

Amaia suppressed the look of disbelief spreading across her face. She had a fairly strong stomach, but the idea of those three eating before an autopsy seemed … improper.

San Martín started to pull on his gloves.

‘So, Inspector, which of the two do you want us to start on?’

‘Which of what two?’ she asked, puzzled.

‘Lucía Aguirre,’ he said pointing to the body draped with a sheet on a nearby slab, ‘or Ramon Quiralte,’ he added, signalling a table further away, on which she could make out a large shape still zipped inside a body bag.

Amaia looked at him quizzically.

‘Both autopsies are scheduled for today, so we can start with whichever one you like.’

Amaia walked over to the mound made by Quiralte’s body on the table, unzipped the bag and studied his face. Death had erased any vestige of good looks he might once have possessed. Around his eyes, dark purple spots had formed where small capillary veins had burst from the strain of vomiting. His half-open mouth, frozen in the middle of a spasm, revealed his teeth and the tip of his white-coated tongue, which protruded like a third lip. His swollen lips were covered in acid burns, and still streaked with vomit, which had trickled into his ear and formed rank clots in his hair. Amaia looked over to where the woman lay and shook her head. Only two metres separated victim and executioner; it was quite conceivable they would use the same scalpel to cut open both bodies.

‘He shouldn’t be here,’ she said, thinking out loud.

‘Pardon?’ replied San Martín.

‘He shouldn’t be here … Not with her.’ The assistants stared at her, bemused. ‘Not together,’ she added, gesturing towards Lucía’s corpse.

‘I doubt whether either of them care at this point, don’t you think?’

She realised that, even if she could explain, they wouldn’t understand.

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ she muttered to herself.

‘Right, then, which one do you want first?’

‘I’m not interested in him,’ she replied coldly. ‘Suicide, end of story.’

She zipped up the bag, and Quiralte’s face disappeared.

The pathologist shrugged as he uncovered Lucía Aguirre’s body. Approaching the slab, Amaia came to a halt, bowed her head in a fleeting prayer, then finally looked up. Stripped of her red-and-white pullover, Amaia barely recognised the cheerful woman whose smiling face presided over the entrance to her house. The corpse had been washed, but the multiple blows, scratches, and bruises she had suffered made the woman appear soiled.

‘Doctor,’ said Amaia, moving closer to him, ‘I wanted to ask you a favour. I know you follow strict procedures, but, as you can imagine, what really interests me is the amputation. I managed to get hold of photos of the skeletal remains the Guardia Civil discovered in the cave at Elizondo,’ she said, showing San Martín a thick envelope. ‘This is all they’ve given me so far. What I need you to do is compare the two sections where the bones were cut through. If we could establish a link between this and the Johana Márquez case, Judge Markina would authorise further measures that might enable us to make headway in the case. I’m meeting him later today – I was hoping I could take along something a little more convincing than mere theories.’

San Martín nodded. ‘All right, let’s get started.’

Switching on a powerful lamp above the body, he held a magnifying glass above the severed limb and photographed the lesion. Then he leaned in so close his nose almost touched the mutilated arm.

‘A clean, post-mortem incision. The heart had already stopped, and the blood was clotting. It was made with a serrated object similar to an electric saw, yet different; this is reminiscent of the Johana Márquez case, where the direction of the incision also suggested an electric knife or angle grinder. Since in the Márquez case it was assumed the culprit was the stepfather, no further inquiries were made into the object he might have used; a few tools from the house and his car were examined, but no matches found.’

Amaia lined up the photographs Padua had given her on the negatoscope and switched on the light, while San Martín placed the one the printer had just spat out next to them.

He studied the images at length, rearranging and occasionally superimposing them, giving low, rhythmical grunts that set Amaia’s teeth on edge and brought joking remarks from his assistants.

‘In your opinion, were the incisions made with the same object?’ Amaia asked, interrupting San Martín’s musings.

‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘Now that would be saying a lot. But what I can confirm is that the same technique was used for all of them; they were made by a right-handed person who was very assured and also very strong.’

Amaia gazed at him, wanting more.

San Martín went on, grinning at the glimmer of hope he saw in the inspector’s eye:

‘Although I can confirm that the bones all belonged to adults, without any tissue attached, it’s impossible to pinpoint their exact age or sex from looking at the photos, still less whether these limbs were surgical amputations or taken from a desecrated tomb. It’s obvious at first glance that the incisions resemble one another, that the bones are all forearms … However, in order to be one hundred per cent certain, I’d need to examine the instrument that was used. We could make moulds of the bones themselves to scan and compare them. I’m sorry, Inspector, but that’s the best I can do, based on photographic evidence. It would be different if we had the actual samples.’

‘The Guardia Civil have their own laboratories – that’s where the samples are kept. You know how reticent their top brass is about sharing information. I’ve been saying for years that until we set up an independent criminal investigation unit, with members from all the different forces, including Interpol, working together in the same laboratories, investigations like this one will continue to grope in the dark,’ complained Amaia. ‘Thank heavens for officers like Padua, who are genuinely interested in solving crimes, not in scoring points.’

Amaia walked back to the body, leaning over as San Martín had done to take a closer look at the wound.

The flesh looked withered and cracked, dried out. The skin had a pale, faintly washed-out quality compared to the rest of the body. Seeing the tiny serrations the blade had made on the bone, she suddenly thought she could make out a dark, pointed object embedded in the flesh.

‘Come over here will you, Doctor? What do you think this could be?’ she asked, stepping aside so he could look through the magnifier.

He glanced up, surprised.

‘I didn’t see that. Well done, Salazar,’ he complimented her. ‘I expect it’s a bit of bone that broke off during the amputation,’ he explained, extracting the fragment with a pair of tweezers. He examined the tiny triangle beneath the magnifier before placing it on a tray, where it made a definite metallic tinkle. He carried it swiftly over to the microscope, then raised his eyes with a grin as he made room for her. ‘Inspector Salazar, what we have here is the tooth of a metal saw – the saw used to amputate the victim’s arm. If we make a mock-up from this one tooth, we’ll have a good chance of establishing approximately what type of saw it was. And if you’re clever enough to persuade Judge Markina, we should be able to carry out tests to ascertain whether the same instrument was used on the bones discovered in the cave in Elizondo. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll get on with the autopsy,’ he said, handing the tray containing the sample to his assistant, who immediately set to work.

8

Inmaculada Herranz was one of those women who earned people’s trust by appearing at once friendly and anxious to please. With her slight build and discreet gestures, Amaia had always thought of her as an ugly geisha; her soft voice and hooded eyelids disguised the stern expression on her face something upset her. Amaia had never warmed to her, despite, or perhaps because of, her affected politeness. For six years, Inmaculada had been Judge Estébanez’s efficient and ever-willing personal assistant, but the judge had no qualms about leaving her behind when she was promoted to her new post on the High Court in Madrid, even though Inmaculada was unmarried and had no children.

Inmaculada’s dismay soon gave way to glee when Judge Markina filled the vacant post, although from then on she was obliged to spend more of her salary on clothes and perfume in an effort to make Markina notice her. And she wasn’t the only one; there was a joke doing the rounds of the courtrooms about the increased expenditure on lipstick and hairdressers among female staff.

Amaia had dialled Markina’s number on her way to her car. Searching her pockets for a pair of sunglasses to ward off the dazzling light reflected in the rain puddles, she waited to hear his secretary’s mellifluous voice.

‘Good afternoon, Inmaculada, this is Inspector Salazar from the murder squad at the Navarre Police Department. Could I speak to Judge Markina, please?’

Her icy response took Amaia by surprise.

‘It’s two-thirty in the afternoon and, as you can imagine, the judge isn’t here.’

‘Yes, I know what time it is. I’ve just come from an autopsy, the results of which Judge Markina is waiting to hear. He asked me to call him …’

‘I see …’ replied the secretary.

‘I find it hard to believe he would forget. Do you know if he’s coming back later?’

‘No, he isn’t coming back, and of course he hasn’t forgotten.’ She paused for a few seconds, then added: ‘He left a number for you to call.’

Amaia waited in silence, amused at her blatant hostility. She sighed loudly to make it clear her patience was wearing thin, then asked:

‘So, Inmaculada, are you going to give me that number, or do I need a court order? Ah, no, wait, I already have one from the judge himself.’

She didn’t respond, but even over the telephone, Amaia could sense the woman pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes in that prudish way so typical of mousy women like her. She read the number out once then hung up without saying goodbye.

Amaia looked at her mobile in amazement. What a long streak of misery! she thought. She punched in the numbers from memory and waited.

Judge Markina replied after one ring tone.

‘I thought it might be you, Salazar. I see my secretary relayed my message.’

‘Sorry to bother you, your honour, but I’ve just come from Lucía Aguirre’s autopsy. The forensic report is conclusive, we have fresh evidence, which in my opinion warrants further investigation.’

‘Are you talking about reopening the case?’ Markina asked, hesitantly.

Amaia forced herself to be more cautious.

‘I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to do your job, your honour. However, this fresh evidence points to a new line of investigation, without prejudice to the initial one. Neither we nor the pathologist are questioning Quiralte’s guilt, but—’

‘Very well,’ the judge interrupted her, seeming to reflect for a moment. His tone suggested she had aroused his interest. ‘Come and talk me through it in person, and remember to bring the pathologist’s report.’

Amaia glanced at her watch.

‘Will you be in your office this afternoon?’ she asked.

‘No, I’m out of town, but I’ll be dining at El Rodero tonight at nine, come there and we can talk.’

She hung up, glancing again at her watch. The pathologist’s report would be ready by then, but if they were to arrive at a reasonable hour James would have to go on ahead to Elizondo with Ibai. She could join them there after her meeting with the judge. She sighed as she climbed into the car, thinking to herself that if she hurried she might make it home in time to give her son his three o’clock feed.

Ibai was crying erratically, alternating gasps and wails to show his annoyance. Between protests, he sucked at the bottle James was struggling to keep in his mouth, cradling him in his arms. He grinned sheepishly when he saw her.

‘We’ve been doing this for twenty minutes and so far I’ve only managed to make him take twenty millilitres, but we’re slowly getting there.’

‘Come to Ama, maitia,’ she said, spreading her arms wide as James passed the baby to her. ‘Did you miss me, my love?’ she added, kissing his face and giggling when he started to suck her chin. ‘Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry, Ama is very late, but I’m here now.’

She sat down in an armchair, folding the baby in her arms, then devoted the next half-hour to him. Ibai’s fretfulness slowly faded, he relaxed and grew calm as Amaia caressed his head, tracing with her forefinger his perfect, tiny features, marvelling at the clear, bright eyes gazing back at her with the intensity and wonderment of an audacious lover.

When she had finished breastfeeding him, she took Ibai to the room Clarice had decorated for him, changed his nappy, reluctantly acknowledging that the furnishings were comfortable and practical, although the baby still slept with them in their bedroom. Afterwards, she cradled him in her arms, singing softly to him until he fell asleep.

‘It’s not good for him to get into the habit of falling asleep like that,’ James whispered behind her. ‘You should leave him in the cot so he learns to relax and goes off on his own.’

‘He has the rest of his life to do that,’ she said rather brusquely. Then she reflected, and added in a softer voice: ‘Let me pamper him a little, James. You’re right, I know, but I miss him so much … And I suppose I’m afraid he’ll stop missing me.’

‘Of course he won’t, silly,’ said James, picking the sleeping child up and moving him to his cot. He arranged a blanket over him and looked again at his wife. ‘I miss you too, Amaia.’

Their eyes met, and for an instant she felt the urge to fling herself into his arms, into that embrace, which, over time, had become the unequivocal symbol of their union, their love for one another. An embrace that always made her feel protected and understood. But the urge didn’t last. She was seized by a sudden frustration. She was tired, she’d skipped lunch, and had just come from an autopsy … For the love of God! She was forced to rush from one side of the city to the other, she scarcely had time to be with her son, but all James could think of was that he missed her. She missed herself! She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had five minutes to herself. She hated him for looking at her with those mournful, dead sheep’s eyes. It didn’t help; no, it didn’t help one bit. She left the room, overwhelmed by feelings of anger and remorse. James was a darling, a wonderful father and the most tolerant man any woman could wish for, but he was a man, and therefore light years away from understanding how she felt, which drove her crazy.

She went into the kitchen. Sensing him behind her, she avoided his gaze while she made herself a cup of coffee.

‘Have you had lunch? Do you want me to make you something?’ he asked, going over to the fridge.

‘No, James, don’t bother,’ she said, sitting down with her milky coffee at the head of the table. ‘Look, James, a meeting has come up with the judge in charge of the case I’m investigating. I can’t put it off and he can only see me this evening, which is when I’ll have the autopsy report. It’s extremely important …’

He nodded.

‘We could drive up to Elizondo tomorrow morning.’

‘No, I want to be there first thing, so we’d have to get up very early. I think it’s best if you go on ahead with Ibai and install yourselves at my aunt’s house. I’ll feed him before you leave, and be there for the next one.’

James started to chew his upper lip – a gesture she knew he only did when he was anxious.

‘Amaia, I wanted to talk to you about that …’

She gazed at him in silence.

‘I think that slavishly following this schedule to keep him breastfeeding …’ she saw he was searching for the right words, ‘… isn’t really compatible with your work. Maybe it’s time for you seriously to consider weaning him off breast milk completely.’

Amaia looked at her husband wishing she could express everything that was bubbling inside her. She was trying, trying as hard as she could. She wanted to succeed, for Ibai’s sake, but above all for herself, for the sake of the child she once was, the daughter of a bad mother. She wanted to be a good mother, she needed to be, otherwise she would be bad, like her own mother. And suddenly she found herself wondering how much of Rosario was in her. Wasn’t the frustration she felt a sign that perhaps something wasn’t right? Where was the joy all those manuals on motherhood promised? Where was the perfect fulfilment a mother was supposed to feel? Why did she only feel exhaustion and a sense of failure?

Instead she said:

‘I already had this job when you met me, James. You accepted that I was and always would be a police officer. If you thought my job would prevent me from being a good wife and mother, you should have said so then.’ She stood up and deposited her cup in the sink, adding as she brushed past him: ‘I don’t need to tell you, this is a marriage, not a life sentence. If you don’t like it …’

James pulled an incredulous face.

‘For heaven’s sake, Amaia! Don’t be so melodramatic,’ he said, rising and following her down the corridor.

She wheeled around, pressing a finger to her lips.

‘You’ll wake up Ibai.’ She went into the bathroom, leaving James standing in the middle of the corridor, shaking his head in disbelief.

She couldn’t fall asleep, and spent the next two hours tossing and turning on the bed, trying unsuccessfully to relax enough to get some rest, while the murmur of the TV James was watching floated in from the living room.

She knew she was behaving like a shrew, being unfair on James, yet somehow she couldn’t help feeling he deserved it … Why? Simply for being understanding? Loving? She wasn’t quite sure what she wanted from him, only that she felt bad inside, and wished he wouldn’t simplify things so much, that he could unburden her, reassure her, but above all understand her. She would have given anything for him to understand her, to realise it had to be this way. Reaching out to touch the empty half of the bed, she dragged James’s pillow towards her, pressing her face into it to find his smell. Why was she making such a mess of things? She felt the urge to go to him … to tell him … to tell him … she wasn’t sure what, maybe that she was sorry.

She climbed out of bed and padded barefoot across the oak floorboards, which creaked underfoot. Poking her head round the door, she saw that James was asleep, propped up on his side, while a succession of adverts illuminated the room where the natural light had faded a while ago. She studied his peaceful expression, reflected in the TV screen. As she approached him, she stopped in her tracks. She had always envied his ability to fall asleep anytime, anywhere, but suddenly, the fact that he could do that when he was supposed to be upset, at least as upset as she was … What the hell! They’d had probably their worst argument ever, and he went off to sleep, as relaxed as if he’d just got out of the sauna. Two million light years away. She glanced at her watch: they still had to pack all the things Ibai would need in Elizondo. Leaving the room, she called out as she walked away:

‘James.’

After loading the car as if they were about to climb Everest rather than spend a few days fifty kilometres from home, she gave James a dozen instructions about Ibai, his clothes, how to dress him so he wouldn’t catch cold but wouldn’t sweat too much, then kissed the baby, who gazed at her from his car seat, content after his feed. He had slept all afternoon and would probably stay awake all the way to Elizondo, but he wouldn’t cry. He liked being in the car with its soft purring sound, and seemed to love the music James played, a little too loud, she thought, so that even if he didn’t sleep, he would enjoy a relaxed journey.

‘I’ll be there in time for his next feed.’

‘… And if not, I’ll give him the bottle,’ replied James, installed behind the wheel.

She was about to answer back, but wanted to avoid another argument with him. Partly out of superstition, she didn’t want them to part on an angry note. As a police officer she had witnessed all too often the responses of relatives when told that a loved one had died, how much deeper their grief was if at the time of that person’s death they weren’t on speaking terms because of a usually trivial argument that would resonate for evermore like a life sentence. She leant through the open window and kissed James tentatively on the lips.

‘I love you, Amaia,’ he said, making it sound like a warning, as he turned the key in the ignition.

I know you do, she thought to herself, stepping back. And I’m only kissing and making up because I couldn’t bear you to die in an accident when you were mad at me. She gave a half-hearted wave, which he didn’t see, and stood, arms clasped around herself to try to alleviate the remorse she felt. She watched the car roll slowly down the street, which was pedestrian-only at that time of day except for residents, until the red tail-lights vanished out of sight.

Shivering in the chilly Pamplona evening, she went back inside, glancing at the envelope that had been sitting in the hallway since a police officer delivered it an hour ago. More than anything she longed to soak in a hot bath. She opened the bathroom door and caught sight of herself in the mirror: eyes ringed in dark circles; hair dull and straw-like with split ends – she couldn’t remember the last time she had been to a hairdresser. She checked the time, felt a flash of anger as she postponed the longed-for bath and climbed into the shower. She let the hot water run until the screen misted up and she could no longer see out. Then she started to cry, as if some inner barrier had given way and a rising tide threatened to drown her from within. Miserable and helpless, she stood there, her tears mingling with the scalding water.

The restaurant El Rodero wasn’t far from her house. When she and James dined there, they usually walked, so that they could have a drink without worrying about driving. This time she took the car, in order to be able to leave for Elizondo as soon as she finished talking to the judge. She parked at an angle opposite Media Luna Park, crossed the street and walked beneath the arcade where El Rodero was located. The large, brightly lit windows and the understated décor of the façade were a promise of the excellent cuisine that had earned the restaurant a Michelin star. The dark wood floor and cherrywood chairs with cushioned backs contrasted with the beige panelling that reached up to the ceiling. The mirrors that lined the walls, combined with the pristine white tablecloths and crockery, added a touch of brightness, accentuated by the floral decorations floating in crystal bowls on the tables.