was so hostile. Amaia could just imagine her making the reservation that morning with her cloying voice, lips set in a thin straight line. Recalling Inmaculada’s words, it dawned on her that Markina had made the reservation even before she called with the results of the autopsy. He knew she would ring him as soon as she got out, and had arranged the dinner in advance. She wondered how far in advance, whether Markina had even been out of town at midday. She couldn’t prove anything. It was equally possible he’d made a reservation for one and asked them to lay another place when he arrived.
‘This won’t take long, your honour, then I’ll let you dine in peace. In fact, if you don’t mind, I’ll start right away.’
She reached into her bag and fished out a brown file that she placed on the table, just as the waiter approached with a bottle of Navarrese Chardonnay.
‘Who would like to taste the wine?’
‘Mademoiselle,’ replied the judge.
‘Madam,’ she retorted, ‘and I won’t have any wine, I’m driving.’
Markina grinned:
‘Water for the lady, then, and wine for me, alas.’
As soon as the waiter moved away, Amaia opened the file.
‘Not now,’ said Markina, sharply. ‘Please,’ he added, in a more conciliatory tone. ‘One look at that and I’ll lose my appetite completely. There are some things one never gets used to.’
‘Your honour …’ she protested.
The waiter placed two dishes in front of them, both containing a small golden-brown parcel adorned with green and red sprouts and leaves.
‘Truffles and mushrooms in a golden parcel. Enjoy your meal, sir, madam,’ he said, withdrawing.
‘Your honour …’ she protested once more.
‘Please, call me Javier.’
Amaia’s anger rose as she started to feel like the victim of an ambush, a blind date meticulously planned by this cretin, who even had the nerve to order for her, and now he wanted her to call him by his first name.
Amaia pushed back her chair.
‘Your honour, I think it’s better if we talk later, once you’ve finished your meal. In the meantime, I’ll wait for you outside.’
He gave a smile that seemed at once sincere and guilty.
‘Salazar, please don’t feel uncomfortable. I still don’t know many people in Pamplona. I love gourmet cooking, and I’m a regular here. I always let the chef decide what I eat, but if the dish isn’t to your liking, I’ll ask them to bring you the menu. Just because we’re meeting as colleagues, it doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy a good meal. Would you have felt more comfortable if we’d met at McDonald’s for a hamburger? I know I wouldn’t.’
Amaia looked askance at him.
‘Please, eat while you tell me about the case, only let’s leave the photos until last.’
She was hungry. She hadn’t eaten anything solid since breakfast, she never did when attending an autopsy, and the aroma of mushroom and truffle from the crispy golden parcel was making her stomach rumble.
‘Very well,’ she said. They would dine if he insisted, but they’d do so in record time.
They ate the first course in silence, Amaia realising how ravenous she had been.
The waiter removed the plates and replaced them with two more.
‘Pearly soup with shellfish, seafood and seaweed,’ he said before withdrawing.
‘One of my favourites,’ said Markina.
‘And mine,’ she echoed.
‘Do you eat at this restaurant?’ he asked, trying to conceal his surprise.
A cretin and arrogant with it, she thought.
‘Yes, but we usually reserve a more intimate table.’
‘I like this one, looking at the other diners …’
And being looked at, thought Amaia.
‘Browsing the library,’ he explained. ‘Luis Rodero has a fine collection of books on cuisine from all over the world.’
Amaia glanced at the spines of a few, among them The Challenge of Spanish Cuisine, a thick, dark volume by El Bulli, as well as the splendid cover of Spanish Cuisine by Cándido.
The waiter placed a fish dish before them.
‘Hake in velouté with crab jelly, hints of vanilla, pepper and lime.’
Amaia tucked in, only half able to savour the subtleties of the dish between glancing at the time and listening to Markina making small talk.
When at last the table was cleared, Amaia declined dessert and ordered coffee. The judge did the same, but with visible reluctance. She waited until the coffee was on the table before once more producing the documents and placing them in front of him.
She saw him pull a face, but went ahead. She sat up straight, instantly sure of herself, on her own ground. Turning her chair slightly to one side so that she could see the door, she felt relaxed for the first time since she’d arrived.
‘During the autopsy, we found clues indicating that the Lucía Aguirre case is probably related to at least one other murder that took place a year ago near Lekaroz,’ she said, picking out one of the files to show to him. ‘Johana Márquez was raped and strangled by her stepfather. He confessed to the crime when he was arrested, but the girl’s body presented the same type of mutilation as that of Lucía Aguirre: amputation of the forearm at the elbow. Both Johana Márquez’s and Lucía Aguirre’s killers took their own lives and left behind identical messages.’
She showed Markina the photographs of the wall in Quiralte’s cell and the note Medina had left for her.
He nodded, his curiosity aroused.
‘Do you think the two men knew each other?’
‘I doubt it, but we could find out for sure if you authorised an investigation.’
He looked at her uncertainly.
‘There’s something else,’ she said, ‘which might be unrelated, but I’m pursuing a lead that suggests a similar amputation was carried out in a crime that took place nearly three years ago in Logroño. As with these two cases, the murder itself was a messy affair, yet the corpse was subjected to a textbook amputation and the severed limb was nowhere to be found.’
‘In all three cases?’ Markina said, alarmed, rifling through the papers.
‘Yes, three so far, but I have a hunch there could be more.’
‘Explain to me exactly what we’re looking for here. A bizarre fraternity of bungling killers who decide to imitate a macabre procedure they possibly read about in the newspapers?’
‘Perhaps, although I don’t think the press gave sufficient details of the amputation to enable someone to imitate it so precisely. In the Johana Márquez case, that information was withheld. What I can confirm is that the perpetrator in Logroño killed himself in his cell, leaving behind the same message on the wall: TARTTALO, with two “t”s. This in itself is noteworthy, because the usual spelling is with one “t”. This leads me to think that their actions are so specific that in themselves they point to a clear identity, the hallmark of a single individual. It’s improbable, to say the least, that the behaviour of these animals would diverge so substantially from the pattern of abusers who kill. The cases I’ve been able to look at tick all the profile boxes: connection to the victim, prolonged abuse, alcoholism or drugs, violent, impulsive personality. The only element that clashed at the crime scenes was the post-mortem amputation of the forearm – the same arm in each case – and the fact that the limb