‘But that’s impossible,’ the young woman replied. ‘My mother hated walnuts, the very sight of them sent her into a panic. She refused to have them in the house – I know, because I did all her shopping. She would rather have dropped dead than touch one. When I was little, a woman came up to me in the street once and gave me a handful of walnuts. When I got home, my mother acted like I’d brought poison into the house. She made me throw them outside, and searched my things to make sure I hadn’t kept any. Then she scrubbed me from head to foot and incinerated my clothes while I cried my eyes out, terrified. She made me swear never to accept walnuts from anyone – obviously, after that, I didn’t. Although, oddly enough, the same woman offered me walnuts several times over the following years. So, you see, my mother would never have eaten them knowingly. There must be some other explanation.’
‘I’ve seen many suicides like this,’ said Dr San Martín, ‘often among the prison population. They’re always gruesome. Remember Quiralte, the fellow who swallowed rat poison? And I’ve seen cases of people ingesting crushed glass, ammoniac, metal shavings … It’s the serene deaths like Dr Berasategui’s that are exceptional, not the horrific ones.’
‘Doctor, could she have swallowed the walnut shavings accidentally, perhaps mixed into food?’ asked Iriarte.
‘I’ll be able to tell you more when I’ve examined the stomach contents, though, judging from the quantity of shavings present in her vomit, I’d say that’s unlikely, if not impossible.’ He turned to Markina: ‘If you have no further questions, your honour, I’d like to get the autopsy under way as soon as possible.’
Markina nodded his approval and the pathologist turned to Amaia. ‘Will you be attending the autopsy, Inspector Salazar?’
‘I’ll be going,’ broke in Iriarte. ‘The victim was known to the inspector’s family.’
Dr San Martín murmured his condolences and set off briskly towards his car. A moment later, Amaia hurried after him, tapped on the window, and leaned in to speak to him.
‘Doctor, about the little Esparza girl: we’ve been looking at recent cases of cot death in the area and there were a couple that caught our attention. In both cases, the pathologist recommended that social services look into the victim’s family.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘About five years.’
‘Then it must have been Maite Hernández – she was the other resident pathologist at the time. I try to avoid carrying out autopsies on small children, so she must have handled the cases you’re talking about.’ Amaia recalled San Martín’s sorrow as he contemplated the little Esparza girl’s body; how he had looked away, as if shamed by his natural feeling of revulsion. If anything, that display of humanity had made him go up in her estimation, though she’d always admired his professionalism and his ability to juggle work and, his great passion, teaching.
‘Dr Hernández was awarded a post at Universidad del País Vasco,’ he went on. ‘I’ll call her when I get back to my office. I’m sure she won’t object to speaking to you.’
Amaia thanked him and stood watching as he drove off. The street was now empty of vehicles; and the neighbours had returned to their houses for lunch, driven inside by the rain. As she gazed along the row of houses, Amaia glimpsed shadows moving behind the shutters, even the odd window cracked open despite the increasingly heavy downpour: clearly the neighbours were keeping an eye on proceedings.
Markina put up his umbrella, holding it over her.
‘I’ve been to your village more times in the past few days than in my entire life. Not that I mind.’ He grinned at her. ‘In fact, I’ve been thinking of coming here, though I’d hoped for different reasons.’
Eager to get away from the indiscreet windows overlooking Calle Giltxaurdi, she didn’t reply but set off down the street, confident that he would follow.
‘You never called me back, and yet you knew I was worried about you. Why won’t you tell me how you are? So much has been going on these past few days.’
Omitting any mention of her visit with Sarasola, she briefed him on her conclusions about Berasategui’s death, how they thought he’d obtained the drug he’d used to end his life.
‘We’ve looked into the missing prison guard. He wasn’t one of the two who were present during my interview with Berasategui; they had already been suspended. He lives with his parents, who didn’t object to showing us his room. In it, we found a plastic bag from a chemist’s on the other side of town. When we showed the pharmacist a photograph of the guard, he remembered him instantly, because he wasn’t often asked to supply that particular sedative in liquid form. He checked the prescription, as well as Berasategui’s name – which hadn’t been struck off the medical register. And since everything appeared to be in order, he had no choice but to dispense the drug. CCTV footage from the prison clearly shows the guard outside the cell, doubtless waiting for Berasategui to take the drug so that he could retrieve the empty vial. We’ve put out a search warrant on him, and have checked that he isn’t with any of his relatives. No news on that front for the moment.’
They had reached the old covered market. All at once, Markina stopped dead in his tracks, obliging her to do the same in order to remain under the shelter of his umbrella. He moved forward a couple of steps and then stopped again, grinning. She couldn’t decide if he was teasing her or incredibly happy to see her; he gazed at her in silence for a few seconds, until, finally overwhelmed, she lowered her eyes, only long enough to collect herself, and said:
‘What is it?’
‘When I complained just now that you hadn’t been in touch, I wasn’t referring to how the investigation was going.’
She lowered her gaze once more, smiling this time. When she looked up again she was back in control.
‘Well, that’s all the news you’ll get from me,’ she retorted.
His smile faded. ‘Do you remember what I told you when we left Berasategui’s apartment that night?’
Amaia didn’t reply.
‘My feelings haven’t changed, and they aren’t going to.’
He was standing very close. His nearness aroused her; his voice, merging with the vivid memory of her dream the night before, instantly evoked the warmth of his lips, his mouth, his embrace …
When a large cultural foundation chose to sponsor an artist’s work, their decision was based on advice from their art and finance consultants, who would take into account the artist’s talent and the quality of their work, as well as their likely future success, and the long-term cost effectiveness of the investment. Thanks to glowing reviews of James’s exhibition at the Guggenheim in the prestigious journals Art News and Art in America, the prices his work could command had risen. Now he was on his way to a meeting in Pamplona with representatives of the Banque National de Paris Foundation, hopeful that the outcome would be a major commission.
Adjusting the rear-view mirror, James grinned at his reflection in the glass. Heading for the motorway, his route took him through Txokoto towards Giltxaurdi Bridge. As he drove down the street near the old market, he saw Amaia sheltering under an umbrella held aloft by a man, the two of them in conversation. Slowing down, he lowered the window to call out to her. But something at once imperceptible and obvious made his voice freeze on his lips. The man was leaning in towards her as he spoke, oblivious to everything around him, while she listened, eyes lowered. It was raining and they were huddled beneath the umbrella, inches apart, and yet it wasn’t their proximity that troubled him, but rather the expression in her eyes when she looked up: they were shining with defiance, the challenge of a contest. James knew that was the one thing Amaia couldn’t resist, because she was a warrior governed by the goddess Palas: Amaia Salazar never surrendered without a fight.
James closed the car