the rucksack inside a body bag. Amaia turned to see Judge Markina standing a few metres away, watching in silence. No doubt San Martín had notified him. Beneath his black umbrella, and in the dim light seeping through the leaden clouds, his face looked sombre; even so, she registered the sparkle in his eye, the intensity of his gaze when he greeted her. Although the gesture was fleeting, she looked nervously at San Martín then at Iriarte to see if they had noticed. San Martín was busy giving orders to his technicians and outlining the facts to the legal secretary beside him, while Iriarte was keeping a close watch on the relatives. The rumour had spread among them, and they began angrily to demand answers even as the mother’s howls of grief grew louder and louder.
‘We need to get this guy out of here now,’ declared Iriarte, motioning to one of the officers.
‘Take him directly to Pamplona,’ ordered Markina.
‘I’ll get a police van to move him there by this afternoon at the very latest, your honour. In the meantime, we’ll take him to the local police station. We’ll meet there,’ Iriarte said to Amaia.
She nodded at Markina by way of a goodbye, then started towards her car.
‘Inspector … Do you have a moment?’
She stopped in her tracks, wheeling round only to find him standing beside her, sheltering her with his umbrella.
‘Why didn’t you call me?’ This wasn’t exactly a reproach, or even a question; it had the seductive tone of an invitation, the playfulness of flirtation. The grey coat he wore over a matching grey suit, his impeccable white shirt and dark tie – unusual for him – gave him a solemn, graceful air, moderated by the lock of hair tumbling over his brow and the light covering of designer stubble. Beneath the canopy of the umbrella she felt herself being drawn into a moment of intimacy, conscious of the expensive cologne emanating from his warm skin, his intense gaze, the warmth of his smile …
Suddenly, Jonan Etxaide appeared out of nowhere.
‘Boss, the cars are all full. Could you give me a lift to the police station?’
‘Of course, Jonan,’ she replied, startled back to reality. ‘If you’ll excuse us, your honour.’
Having taken her leave, she made her way towards the car without a backward glance. Etxaide, however, turned once to contemplate Markina, who was standing where they had left him. The magistrate responded with a wave.
The warmth of the police station hadn’t succeeded in bringing the colour back to Iriarte’s cheeks, but at least he’d managed to change out of his wet clothes by the time Amaia arrived.
‘What did he say?’ she asked. ‘Why was he taking her body?’
‘He hasn’t said a word. He’s sitting curled up in a ball in the corner of his cell, refusing to move or speak.’
She made to leave, but when she got to the door she turned to face the inspector.
‘Do you think Esparza’s behaviour was motivated by grief, or do you believe he is involved in his daughter’s death?’
‘I honestly don’t know,’ said Iriarte. ‘This could be a reaction to losing his daughter, but I can’t rule out the possibility he was trying to prevent a second autopsy, fearing it would confirm his mother-in-law’s suspicions.’ He fell silent, then sighed. ‘I can’t imagine anything more monstrous than harming your own child.’
The clear image of her mother’s face suddenly flashed into Amaia’s mind. She managed to thrust it aside only for it to be replaced by another, that of the midwife, Fina Hidalgo, breaking off newly sprouted shoots with a dirty fingernail, stained green: ‘The families mostly did it themselves; I only helped occasionally when they couldn’t bring themselves to destroy the fruit of their womb, or some such nonsense.’
‘Was the girl normal, Inspector? I mean, did she suffer from brain damage or any other disabilities.’
Iriarte shook his head. ‘Besides being premature, the doctor assured me she was a normal, healthy child.’
The holding cells at the new police station in Elizondo had no bars; instead, a wall of toughened glass separated them from the reception area, allowing each compartment to be viewed from outside, and making it possible for the occupants to be filmed round the clock. Amaia and Iriarte walked along the corridor outside the cells, all of them empty save for one. As they approached the glass, they could see a man crouched on the floor at the back of the cell between the sink and the toilet. His arms were looped around his knees, his head lowered. Iriarte switched on the intercom.
‘Valentín Esparza.’
The man looked up.
‘Inspector Salazar would like to ask you a few questions.’
He lowered his face again.
‘Valentín,’ Iriarte called out, more firmly this time, ‘we’re coming in. No need to get agitated, just stay calm.’
Amaia leaned towards Iriarte. ‘I’ll go in alone, I’m in plain clothes, I’m a woman, it’s less intimidating …’
Iriarte withdrew to the adjacent room, which was set up so that he could see and hear everything that went on.
Amaia entered the cell and stood facing Esparza. After a few seconds, she asked: ‘May I sit down?’
He looked at her, thrown by the question.
‘What?’
‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ she repeated, pointing to a wooden bench along the wall that doubled as a bed. Asking permission was a sign of respect; she wasn’t treating him as a prisoner, or a suspect.
He waved a hand.
‘Thank you,’ she said, sitting down. ‘At this time of day, I’m already exhausted. I have a baby too – a little boy. He’s five months old. I know that you lost your baby girl yesterday.’ The man raised his pale face and looked straight at her. ‘How old was she?’
‘Four months,’ he said in a hoarse voice.
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
He swallowed hard, eyes downcast.
‘Today was supposed to be my day off, you know. And when I arrived I found this mess. Why don’t you tell me what happened?’
He sat up, motioning with his chin towards the camera behind the glass, and the spotlight illuminating the cell. His face looked serious, in pain, but not mistrustful.
‘Haven’t your colleagues told you?’
‘I’d like to hear it from you. I’m more interested in your version.’
He took his time. A less experienced interrogator might have assumed he had clammed up, but Amaia simply waited.
‘I was taking my daughter’s body away.’
Amaia noted the use of the word body; he was acknowledging that he had been carrying a corpse, not a child.
‘Where to?’
‘Where to?’ he asked, bewildered. ‘Nowhere, I just … I just wanted to have her a bit longer.’
‘You said you were taking her away, that you were taking her body away, and they arrested you next to your car. Where were you going?’
He remained silent.
She tried a different tack.
‘It’s amazing how much having a baby changes your life. There’s so much to do, so many demands on you. My boy gets colic every night after his last feed; sometimes he cries for as long as two or three hours. All I can do is walk round the house trying to calm him. I understand how