‘Is everything okay, boss?’
She looked at him, attempting to disguise her unease. Who was she trying to fool? Jonan knew her almost as well as she knew herself, but she was aware that she couldn’t always tell him everything. She put him off the scent by mentioning something else that was bothering her.
‘My sister Flora is in Elizondo, insisting we hold a funeral service for our mother; just thinking about it makes me feel sick, and as if that weren’t enough, the rest of my family is siding with her, including James. I’ve tried to explain my reasons for thinking she’s still alive, but I’ve only succeeded in making them angry with me for preventing them from closing this chapter in their lives.’
‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t believe she fell in that river either.’
Amaia gave a sigh, looking straight at him.
‘Of course it is, Jonan, very much so … You’re a good cop, and I trust your instinct. It’s a great relief to have you on my side.’
Jonan nodded without much conviction, as he went round the table gathering up the photographs.
‘Do you need me to go somewhere with you, boss?’
‘I’m off home, Jonan,’ she replied.
He smiled wistfully at her on his way out, leaving her with the familiar feeling of having been unable to pull the wool over his eyes.
As she drove towards the Txokoto River, she passed Juanitaenea, the house that had belonged to her grandmother. James had planned to restore it so that they could live there; the building materials he’d ordered were sitting on pallets outside the house, but there was no sign of any activity.
She was tempted to stop off at the bakery on her way, but decided against it: she had too much going on in her head to become embroiled in another discussion with Ros over the funeral. Instead, she crossed the Giltxaurdi Bridge and parked near the old market. She knew the house she was looking for was close by, but all the houses on that street looked the same and she couldn’t remember which one it was. In the end she took a guess, smiling with relief when Elena Ochoa opened the door.
‘Can we talk?’ Amaia asked her.
The woman responded by seizing her arm and pulling her into the house, then she leaned out to look up and down the street. As on her previous visit, Amaia followed Elena through to the kitchen. Not a word was exchanged as Elena made coffee for them both, placing two cups on a plastic tray covered with kitchen roll. Amaia was grateful for the silence; every instant the woman spent on her precise coffee-making ritual gave Amaia time to order the instincts – for she could scarcely call them thoughts or ideas – that had brought her there. They clattered in her head like the echo from a blow, as the stream of images in her mind amalgamated with others engraved on her memory. She had gone there searching for answers, yet she wasn’t sure she had the questions. Aunt Engrasi always used to tell her: ‘You’ll only find the answers if you know which questions to ask.’ But all she had to go on in this case was a small, white coffin, weighted with bags of sugar, and the word ‘sacrifice’. It was an ominous combination.
She noticed that the woman was trying to steady her hands as she spooned sugar into two cups. She began to stir the brew, but the chink of the spoon on the china seemed to exasperate her to the point where she hurled the spoon on to the tray.
‘Forgive me, my nerves are bad. Tell me what you want, and let’s be done.’
This was Baztán hospitality. Elena Ochoa had no desire to speak to her, in fact she couldn’t wait for her to leave the house and would heave a sigh of relief when she saw her walk through the door, yet she wouldn’t renege on the sacred ritual of offering a visitor something to drink or eat. She was one of those women who did what had to be done. Reassured by that thought, Amaia cupped her hands round the coffee she wouldn’t have time to drink, and spoke.
‘When I came here last, I asked you whether the sect had ever carried out a human sacrifice …’
At this, Elena began to shake uncontrollably.
‘Please … You must leave, I have nothing to say.’
‘Elena, you’ve got to help me. My mother is still out there. I need you to tell me where that house is, I know that’s where I’ll find answers.’
‘I can’t – they’ll kill me.’
‘Who?’
She shook her head, terrified.
‘We’ll give you protection,’ said Amaia, casting a sidelong glance at the little effigy of the virgin with a flickering candle in front of it, and a worn string of rosary beads draped at the base; beside it stood a couple of postcards bearing images of Christ.
‘You can’t protect me from them.’
‘Do you think they carried out a sacrifice?’
Elena stood up, emptying the remains of her coffee into the sink, her back to Amaia as she washed up her cup.
‘No. The proof is that you’re still alive; at the time, the only pregnant woman in the group was Rosario. I’ve thanked God a thousand times for keeping you safe. Perhaps in the end they were trying to impress us, to cow us into submission by making themselves seem more dangerous and powerful …’
Amaia took in the array of talismans with which Elena had surrounded herself: the poor woman was desperately trying to convince herself that she was in control, and yet her body language betrayed her.
‘Elena, look at me,’ she commanded.
Elena turned off the tap, dropped the sponge and swung round to look at her.
‘I had a twin sister who died at birth. The official cause was registered as cot death.’
Pale with fear, the woman raised her hands, placed them over her distraught face, moist with tears, and asked: ‘Where is she buried? Where is she buried?’
Amaia shook her head, watching the woman flinch as she went on to explain:
‘We don’t know. I found her tomb, but the coffin was empty.’
Elena gave a terrible, visceral howl, and lunged at Amaia, who leapt to her feet, startled.
‘Leave my house! Leave my house and never come back!’ she screamed, corralling Amaia to force her to walk on.
Before opening the front door, Amaia turned once more to plead with the woman.
‘At least tell me where the house is.’
After the door slammed shut, she could still hear the woman’s muffled sobs coming from inside.
Instinctively, she reached into her pocket for her phone and dialled Special Agent Aloisius Dupree. She pressed it tightly to her ear as she walked back to her car, listening hard for the faintest sound at the other end of the line. She was about to hang up, when she heard a crackle. She knew he was there, the FBI agent who had been her mentor during her time in New Orleans, and who remained an important part of her life, despite the distances. The sound that reached her through the earpiece a moment later made a shiver run up her spine: the repetitive drone of a funeral chant, the echo of voices suggesting a large space, possibly a cathedral. There was something bleak and sinister about the way three words were repeated over and over again in a monotone. But it was the shrill, anguished death cry that made her stomach turn. The tortured death throes continued for a few seconds, then at last the pitiful sound faded, she assumed because Dupree was moving away.
When at last he spoke, his voice betrayed the same anguish she herself felt.
‘Don’t call me again, I’ll call you.’ Then he hung up, leaving Amaia feeling so small and far away from him that it made her want to scream.
She was still holding