during your investigation of the basajaun murders. Having looked into the matter, Internal Affairs recommend he be reinstated. As I’m sure you’re aware, that will only happen if the other officers involved – in this case, yourself and Inspector Iriarte – give Montes a favourable report.’
Amaia kept quiet, waiting to see where the Commissioner was going with this.
‘Things have changed. Then you were the detective leading the investigation, now you’re head of the murder squad. If Inspector Montes is reinstated, he’ll be under your command like everyone else. I have the last word over whether to assign him to your team or not, but your team is one short, so if you don’t want Montes, I’ll have to assign another permanent officer.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ she said frostily.
The Commissioner sensed her animosity.
‘I’m not trying to influence your decision, Inspector, I’m merely keeping you informed.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she replied.
‘You can go now.’
Amaia closed the door behind her and whispered:
‘No, of course you aren’t.’
The Navarre Institute of Forensic Medicine was deserted at midday. Between showers, a hesitant sun shone on surfaces glistening from the recent rain; the number of spaces in the car park showed it was lunchtime. Even so, Amaia wasn’t surprised to see two women throw away the cigarettes they had been smoking and walk over to her as soon as they saw her. She found herself resorting to a memory cue, as she struggled with their names: ‘Lazaro’s sisters’.
‘Marta, María,’ she greeted them. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said, knowing full well that there was no obvious place for family members to go, and that they would either remain in the doorway or in the tiny waiting room until their loved one was released. ‘You’d be better off at home, I’ll let you know as soon as the …’ She always found the word autopsy, with its sinister connotations, impossible to pronounce in the presence of family members. It was just another word; they all knew why they were there; some of them even used it themselves. But, knowing what it entailed, for her it was as painful as the scalpel making a Y-shaped incision on the corpse of their loved one. ‘… As soon as they’ve finished all the tests,’ Amaia said.
‘Inspector.’ It was the older sister who spoke, Marta or María, she could never be sure. ‘We realise there has to be an autopsy because our mother was the victim of a violent crime, but they told us today that it could be a few more days before they release her … well, her body.’
The younger sister burst out crying. As she attempted to stifle her tears, she gasped as if she were choking.
‘Why?’ demanded the older sister. ‘They already know who killed her. They know it was that animal. But now he’s dead and, God forgive me, I’m glad, because he died like the filthy rat that he was.’
Tears started to stream down her face too. She wiped them away furiously, for unlike her sister’s, they were tears of rage.
‘… And yet at the same time I wish he was still alive, locked up, rotting in prison. Can you understand that? I wish I could strangle him with my bare hands, I wish I could do everything to him that he did to our mother.’
Amaia nodded. ‘And even then, you wouldn’t feel any better.’
‘I don’t want to feel better, Inspector. I doubt anything in the world would make me feel good right now. I just wish I could hurt him, it’s as simple as that.’
‘Don’t talk that way,’ her sister implored.
Amaia laid her hand on the angry woman’s shoulder.
‘No, you wouldn’t. I know you think that’s what you want – and to some extent it’s normal, but you couldn’t do anything like that to anyone, I know you couldn’t.’
The woman stared at her. Amaia could see she was close to breaking down.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because to do the things he did, you’d need to be like him.’
The woman clasped her hands to her mouth; from the horror on her face, Amaia saw that she had understood. Her younger sister, who had appeared the more fragile and defenceless of the two, placed one arm around her older sister, and encountered no resistance as with her free hand she gently tilted the woman’s head on to her own shoulder, in a gesture of reassurance and affection which Amaia was sure she had learned from their mother.
‘We assumed we’d get her back after the autopsy. Why is it taking longer?’
‘Our mother lay abandoned for five months in a frozen field. Now we need time with her, time to say our goodbyes, to bury her.’
Amaia studied them, assessing how resilient they were. Against all the odds, and despite evidence to the contrary, relatives of missing people show great resilience, which is nourished by the belief that their loved ones are still alive. But the moment the body appears, all the energy that has been keeping them going collapses like a sandcastle in a storm.
‘All right, now listen to me, but bear in mind that what I’m about to tell you relates to an ongoing investigation, so I’m counting on you to be discreet.’
The two women looked at her expectantly.
‘I’ve been honest with you from the start, from the day you asked me to authorise a search for your mother because you were convinced she hadn’t disappeared voluntarily. I’ve kept you informed every step of the way. And now I need you to carry on trusting me. We’ve established that Quiralte killed your mother. However, it’s possible he wasn’t the only person involved.’
Their anticipation gave way to astonishment.
‘You mean he had an accomplice?’
‘I’m not sure yet, but this case resembles another one I worked on in an advisory role, where a possible second culprit was also suspected. A different force was in charge of that investigation and so comparing the different elements and evidence will be a more complex and time-consuming process. We’ve been given the green light, but this could take hours, possibly days, I can’t say for sure. I know this has been very hard for you, but your mother is no longer in a frozen field, she’s here. And the reason why she’s here is so that she can help us to solve the crime of which she herself was the victim. I’ll be in there with her, and I promise you that no one respects the smallest detail she might be able to tell us more than these pathologists. Believe me, they are the voice of the victims.’
She could tell from the look of acceptance on their faces that she had convinced them. Whilst she didn’t need their consent, there was nothing to be gained from having irate relatives getting in the way of her work.
‘At least we’ll be able to hold a Mass for her soul,’ murmured Marta.
‘Yes. That’ll do you good. You know she would have liked that.’ Amaia proffered a firm hand, which both women shook. ‘I’ll do my best to speed things up. I promise to call you.’
Amaia swapped her coat for a gown and entered the autopsy room. Dr San Martín, stooped over a stainless steel worktop, was showing something on the computer to a couple of assistants.
‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Or should that be good afternoon?’
‘For us it’s good afternoon, we’ve already had lunch,’ replied one of the assistants.
Amaia suppressed the look of disbelief spreading across her face. She had a fairly strong stomach, but the idea of those three eating before an autopsy seemed … improper.
San Martín started to pull on his gloves.
‘So, Inspector, which of the two do you want us to start on?’
‘Which of what two?’ she asked, puzzled.