The Legacy of the Bones

A waitress greeted her as she entered, offering to take her coat. Amaia declined.

‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘I’m meeting one of your diners, could you tell him I’m here?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Amaia hesitated, unsure whether the judge used his title outside of work.

‘Mr Markina.’

The young girl smiled.

‘Judge Markina is expecting you. Follow me, please,’ she said, escorting her to the far end of the restaurant.

They passed through the room Amaia had assumed they would be meeting in, and the waitress pointed her to one of the best tables beside the chef’s personal library. Five chairs stood around it but only two places were set. Markina rose to greet her, extending his hand.

‘Good evening, Salazar,’ he said, avoiding using her rank.

The approving look the waitress gave the handsome judge didn’t escape her.

‘Please, take a seat,’ he said.

Amaia paused for a moment, gazing at the chair he was indicating. She disliked sitting with her back to the door (a professional quirk), but she did as Markina suggested, and sat facing him.

‘Your honour,’ she began, ‘forgive me for bothering you …’

‘It’s no bother, providing you agree to join me. I’ve already ordered, but I’d feel most uncomfortable if you were to sit and watch me eat.’

His tone brooked no argument, and Amaia became uneasy.

‘But …’ she protested, pointing to the place set for a second person.

‘That’s for you. As I told you, I hate people watching me eat. I took the liberty. I hope you don’t mind,’ he said, although it didn’t sound as if he cared much whether she minded or not. She observed his body language as he shook open his napkin and placed it on his knees.

So that explained why Markina’s secretary was so hostile. Amaia could just imagine her making the reservation that morning with her cloying voice, lips set in a thin straight line. Recalling Inmaculada’s words, it dawned on her that Markina had made the reservation even before she called with the results of the autopsy. He knew she would ring him as soon as she got out, and had arranged the dinner in advance. She wondered how far in advance, whether Markina had even been out of town at midday. She couldn’t prove anything. It was equally possible he’d made a reservation for one and asked them to lay another place when he arrived.

‘This won’t take long, your honour, then I’ll let you dine in peace. In fact, if you don’t mind, I’ll start right away.’

She reached into her bag and fished out a brown file that she placed on the table, just as the waiter approached with a bottle of Navarrese Chardonnay.

‘Who would like to taste the wine?’

‘Mademoiselle,’ replied the judge.

‘Madam,’ she retorted, ‘and I won’t have any wine, I’m driving.’

Markina grinned:

‘Water for the lady, then, and wine for me, alas.’

As soon as the waiter moved away, Amaia opened the file.

‘Not now,’ said Markina, sharply. ‘Please,’ he added, in a more conciliatory tone. ‘One look at that and I’ll lose my appetite completely. There are some things one never gets used to.’

‘Your honour …’ she protested.

The waiter placed two dishes in front of them, both containing a small golden-brown parcel adorned with green and red sprouts and leaves.

‘Truffles and mushrooms in a golden parcel. Enjoy your meal, sir, madam,’ he said, withdrawing.

‘Your honour …’ she protested once more.

‘Please, call me Javier.’

Amaia’s anger rose as she started to feel like the victim of an ambush, a blind date meticulously planned by this cretin, who even had the nerve to order for her, and now he wanted her to call him by his first name.

Amaia pushed back her chair.

‘Your honour, I think it’s better if we talk later, once you’ve finished your meal. In the meantime, I’ll wait for you outside.’

He gave a smile that seemed at once sincere and guilty.

‘Salazar, please don’t feel uncomfortable. I still don’t know many people in Pamplona. I love gourmet cooking, and I’m a regular here. I always let the chef decide what I eat, but if the dish isn’t to your liking, I’ll ask them to bring you the menu. Just because we’re meeting as colleagues, it doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy a good meal. Would you have felt more comfortable if we’d met at McDonald’s for a hamburger? I know I wouldn’t.’

Amaia looked askance at him.

‘Please, eat while you tell me about the case, only let’s leave the photos until last.’

She was hungry. She hadn’t eaten anything solid since breakfast, she never did when attending an autopsy, and the aroma of mushroom and truffle from the crispy golden parcel was making her stomach rumble.

‘Very well,’ she said. They would dine if he insisted, but they’d do so in record time.

They ate the first course in silence, Amaia realising how ravenous she had been.

The waiter removed the plates and replaced them with two more.

‘Pearly soup with shellfish, seafood and seaweed,’ he said before withdrawing.

‘One of my favourites,’ said Markina.

‘And mine,’ she echoed.

‘Do you eat at this restaurant?’ he asked, trying to conceal his surprise.

A cretin and arrogant with it, she thought.

‘Yes, but we usually reserve a more intimate table.’

‘I like this one, looking at the other diners …’

And being looked at, thought Amaia.

‘Browsing the library,’ he explained. ‘Luis Rodero has a fine collection of books on cuisine from all over the world.’

Amaia glanced at the spines of a few, among them The Challenge of Spanish Cuisine, a thick, dark volume by El Bulli, as well as the splendid cover of Spanish Cuisine by Cándido.

The waiter placed a fish dish before them.

‘Hake in velouté with crab jelly, hints of vanilla, pepper and lime.’

Amaia tucked in, only half able to savour the subtleties of the dish between glancing at the time and listening to Markina making small talk.

When at last the table was cleared, Amaia declined dessert and ordered coffee. The judge did the same, but with visible reluctance. She waited until the coffee was on the table before once more producing the documents and placing them in front of him.

She saw him pull a face, but went ahead. She sat up straight, instantly sure of herself, on her own ground. Turning her chair slightly to one side so that she could see the door, she felt relaxed for the first time since she’d arrived.

‘During the autopsy, we found clues indicating that the Lucía Aguirre case is probably related to at least one other murder that took place a year ago near Lekaroz,’ she said, picking out one of the files to show to him. ‘Johana Márquez was raped and strangled by her stepfather. He confessed to the crime when he was arrested, but the girl’s body presented the same type of mutilation as that of Lucía Aguirre: amputation of the forearm at the elbow. Both Johana Márquez’s and Lucía Aguirre’s killers took their own lives and left behind identical messages.’

She showed Markina the photographs of the wall in Quiralte’s cell and the note Medina had left for her.

He nodded, his curiosity aroused.

‘Do you think the two men knew each other?’

‘I doubt it, but we could find out for sure if you authorised an investigation.’

He looked at her uncertainly.

‘There’s something else,’ she said, ‘which might be unrelated, but I’m pursuing a lead that suggests a similar amputation was carried out in a crime that took place nearly three years ago in Logroño. As with these two cases, the murder itself was a messy affair, yet the corpse was subjected to a textbook amputation and the severed limb was nowhere to be found.’

‘In all three cases?’ Markina said, alarmed, rifling through the papers.

‘Yes, three so far, but I have a hunch there could be more.’

‘Explain to me exactly what we’re looking for here. A bizarre fraternity of bungling killers who decide to imitate a macabre procedure they possibly read about in the newspapers?’

‘Perhaps, although I don’t think the press gave sufficient details of the amputation to enable someone to imitate it so precisely. In the Johana Márquez case, that information was withheld. What I can confirm is that the perpetrator in Logroño killed himself in his cell, leaving behind the same message on the wall: TARTTALO, with two “t”s. This in itself is noteworthy, because the usual spelling is with one “t”. This leads me to think that their actions are so specific that in themselves they point to a clear identity, the hallmark of a single individual. It’s improbable, to say the least, that the behaviour of these animals would diverge so substantially from the pattern of abusers who kill. The cases I’ve been able to look at tick all the profile boxes: connection to the victim, prolonged abuse, alcoholism or drugs, violent, impulsive personality. The only element that clashed at the crime scenes was the post-mortem amputation of the forearm – the same arm in each case – and the fact that the limb was missing.’

Markina flicked through one of the reports in his hand.

‘I myself questioned Johana Márquez’s stepfather,’ she went on. ‘He denied all knowledge of the severed limb, insisting he had nothing to do with the amputation, despite having confessed to charges of harassment, murder, rape, and necrophilia …’

Amaia watched Markina, who ran his hand absentmindedly over his chin as he pondered the information with a wistful expression that made him appear older and more attractive. From afar, the waitress who had accompanied her to the table was standing by the lectern at the entrance, also observing him intently.

‘So, what do you think?’

‘I think we’re looking at an accomplice, a fourth person who could be the link between these three perpetrators and their crimes.’

Markina remained silent, his eyes moving between the documents and Amaia. For the first time that evening she was beginning to feel truly at ease. Finally, she saw on Markina’s face that familiar expression, which she frequently encountered on the faces of her colleagues as well as her superiors, when putting forward her arguments: interest, the kind of interest that generated questions, a thorough analysis of the facts and theories that would trigger an investigation. Markina’s eyes grew steelier while he was thinking, his undeniably handsome face acquiring an air of intelligence that she found extremely attractive. She contemplated the perfect outline of his lips, reflecting that it was no surprise that half the female secretaries in the courtroom were vying for his attention. The thought made her smile, breaking Markina’s concentration.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing, sorry,’ she said, smiling again. ‘Honestly, it’s nothing … I was just remembering something. It isn’t important.’

He looked at her, his curiosity piqued.

‘That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile.’

‘What?’ she replied, slightly taken aback by the observation.

He continued to stare at her, his expression serious again. She held his gaze for a few seconds then lowered her eyes towards the manila file. She cleared her throat.

‘So?’ she said, looking up, in control once more.

He nodded.

‘I think you might be on to something … I’m going to give you my authorisation. But be discreet and keep it low-key: we don’t want the press getting hold of this. Theoretically, these cases are closed, so we need to avoid causing the victims’ families any unnecessary suffering. Keep me abreast of your progress. And if you need anything don’t hesitate to ask me,’ he added, looking straight at her again.

She didn’t allow herself to be intimidated.

‘OK, I’ll take things slowly. I’m working on another case with my team, so there won’t be much to report in the next few days.’

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ he replied.

She started to gather up the various papers spread over the table. Markina reached out and touched her hand for a split second.

‘You’ll stay for another coffee, won’t you? …’

She paused.

‘Yes, I have to drive, it’ll keep me awake.’

He raised his hand to order two coffees, while she hurriedly collected the papers.

‘I thought you lived in the old quarter?’

You’re well informed, your honour, she thought as the waiter brought over their coffees.

‘I do, but I have to travel to Baztán because of the investigation I mentioned.’

‘You’re from there originally, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she replied.

‘I’ve heard the food is excellent. Perhaps you could recommend a restaurant …’

Four or five names instantly came into her head.

‘I’m afraid not. The fact is, I seldom go there,’ she lied, ‘and when I do, I tend to eat with my relatives.’

He smiled in disbelief, raising an eyebrow. Amaia took the opportunity to drink her coffee and put the files back in her bag.

‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, your honour, I really must go,’ she said, pushing back her chair.

Markina rose to his feet.

‘Where’s your car?’

‘Oh, not far, I’m parked right outside.’

‘Wait,’ he said grabbing his coat. ‘I’ll accompany you.’

‘There’s no need.’

‘I insist.’

He hovered while the waiter brought his card, then took her coat and held it up for her to put on.

‘Thanks,’ she said, snatching it from him, ‘but I never wear it when I’m driving, I find it bothersome,’ she added, her tone making it unclear whether she was referring to the coat or to all Markina’s attentions.

Markina’s expression clouded slightly as they made their way to the door. She held it open until he caught up with her. The temperature outside was several degrees colder, and the moisture in the air had condensed into mist above the thick cluster of trees in the park. This only occurred in that part of the city, causing the orange light from the streetlamps to form hazy circles in the floating mist.

They walked out from under the arcades and crossed the street, which was lined with parked cars, although there was little traffic at that time of night. Amaia pressed the remote, and turned to Markina.

‘Thank you, your honour, I’ll keep you informed,’ she said, keeping her tone professional.

But he stepped around her and opened the car door.

She sighed, trying not to lose her patience.

‘Thank you.’

She flung her coat inside and clambered into the driver’s seat. She was no fool; she had seen what Markina was up to hours ago and was determined to repel all his advances.

‘Good night, your honour,’ she said, grabbing the handle to close the door and turning the key in the ignition.

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