As she made her way in, she greeted Montes, Zabalza and Iriarte, gathered as usual around the coffee machine.
‘Do you fancy a coffee, boss?’ Montes asked.
Amaia paused, noting with amusement Zabalza’s sulky expression.
‘Thanks, Inspector, but there’s no pleasure in drinking coffee out of a plastic cup. I’ll make myself a proper one later, in a mug.’
Deputy Inspector Etxaide was waiting for her in her office.
‘Boss, I’ve dug up some interesting facts about SIDS.’
She hung up her coat, switched on her computer and sat down at her desk.
‘I’m listening.’
‘Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, or SIDS, is the name given to unexplained deaths among babies younger than one, but sometimes as old as two. Death occurs during sleep and is apparently painless. Two out of every thousand babies in Europe die of SIDS, ninety per cent within the first six months. Statistically, SIDS is the most widespread cause of death among healthy babies over one month old, although that is largely because if no other cause is discovered during autopsy, death is attributed to SIDS.’
He placed a printout on the desk in front of her. ‘I’ve made a list of the various risk factors, and how to minimise them, although they’re fairly wide-ranging; from prenatal care, breastfeeding and passive smoking, through to how the baby is positioned during sleep. Interestingly, most deaths occur in winter. The average number of deaths in Spain from SIDS is the same as in the rest of Europe. Seventeen children died from SIDS in Navarre in the last five years, four of them in Baztán – numbers which are also well within the norm.’
Amaia looked at him, considering the information.
‘In all cases, an autopsy was performed and the cause of death was registered as SIDS. However, in two of them, the pathologist recommended that social services investigate the family,’ he said, handing her a sheaf of stapled pages. ‘There’s no additional information, but it seems both cases were closed without any further action being taken.’
After knocking gently, Montes poked his head round the door.
‘I hope I’m not interrupting. Etxaide, are you coming for a coffee?’
Clearly surprised by the invitation, Jonan glanced at Amaia, arching his eyebrows.
‘Go ahead, it’ll give me time to read through all this,’ she said, holding up the report.
After Jonan had gone out, Montes poked his head round the door again, and winked.
‘Get out of here!’ she said, grinning.
As Montes left, Iriarte entered.
‘A woman has been found dead,’ he announced. ‘Her daughter drove all the way from Pamplona to check up on her because she wasn’t answering the phone. Apparently, when she got there the mother had vomited huge amounts of blood. She rang the emergency services, but paramedics couldn’t save the woman. The doctor who examined the body suspects that something isn’t right, so he called us …’
Driving across the bridge, she could see in the distance various vehicles belonging to the emergency services. It was only when they reached the end of the street that Amaia saw which house they were attending. In that instant, all the air seemed to be sucked out of the car, leaving her gasping for breath.
‘Do you know the dead woman’s name?’
‘Ochoa,’ said Iriarte. ‘I can’t remember her first name.’
‘Elena Ochoa.’
She needed no confirmation from Iriarte. A pale, distraught woman, looking like a younger version of her mother, stood smoking a cigarette outside the front door. Next to her, a man, presumably her partner, had his arm around her, practically holding her up.
She passed by without speaking to them, walked along the narrow corridor, and was guided to the bedroom by a paramedic. The heat in the room had intensified the pungent smell of blood and urine emanating from the pool surrounding Elena’s body. She was on her knees, jammed between the bed and a chest of drawers, arms clasped about her midriff, body leaning forward so that her face was resting in a patch of bloody bile. Amaia was relieved that Elena’s eyes were closed. Whereas her posture betrayed what must have been the agony of her final moments, her face appeared relaxed, as if the precise instant of death had been a great release.
Amaia turned towards the doctor, who stood waiting behind her.
‘Inspector Iriarte told me you’d found some anomaly …’
‘Yes, at first I thought she must have suffered a massive internal haemorrhage that filled her stomach with blood, causing her lungs to collapse. But when I looked closer, I could see that her vomit was made up of what appear to be tiny splinters.’
Amaia leaned over the pool of bloody vomit and saw that it did indeed contain hundreds of wood shavings.
Crouching down beside her, the doctor showed her a plastic container.
‘I took a sample, and this is what was left after washing off the blood.’
‘But, surely those are—’
‘Walnut shells, cut into razor-thin slices … I can’t begin to think how she swallowed them, but ingesting this amount would certainly perforate her stomach, duodenum, and trachea. Worst of all, when she vomited them up again, they must have torn her insides to shreds. She seems to have been prescribed anti-depressants. They’re on top of the microwave oven in the kitchen. Of course, she may not have been taking them. I can’t think of a more horrible way to kill oneself.’
Elena Ochoa’s daughter had inherited her mother’s appearance, her name and her hospitality towards guests. She insisted on making coffee for everyone in the house. Amaia had tried to protest, but the boyfriend intervened.
‘It will take her mind off things,’ he said.
From the same chair she had occupied during her most recent visit, Amaia watched the young woman moving about the kitchen. As before, she waited until the cups had been set out and the coffee poured before speaking.
‘I knew your mother.’
‘She never mentioned you,’ said the daughter, surprised.
‘I didn’t know her well. I came here a couple of times to ask her about my mother, Rosario; they were friends in their youth,’ she explained. ‘During my last visit, she seemed agitated. Had you noticed anything strange about your mother’s behaviour in the last few days?’
‘My mother has always suffered with her nerves. She became depressed after my father passed away. She never really got over it. I was seven at the time. She had good days and bad, but she was always fragile. It’s true that, in the last month or so, she was beginning to show signs of paranoia. On the other occasions when that happened, the doctor advised me to be firm, not to feed her fears. But this time I could tell she was genuinely terrified.’
‘You know her better than anyone. Do you think your mother was capable of taking her own life?’
‘You mean, did she kill herself? Never, not in a million years. She was a practising Catholic. Surely you don’t think … My mother died of internal bleeding. She complained of stomach pains when I spoke to her on the phone yesterday. She said she’d taken an antacid and some painkillers, and was going to try drinking camomile tea. I offered to drive up and see her after work. I’ve been living in Pamplona with Luis for a year,’ she said, indicating the young man. ‘We come up most weekends and stay the night. Anyway, she told me not to bother, that it was just a bit of heartburn. Last night, I called her again at bedtime