11

      She was aware of his hot breath on her skin, of becoming intensely aroused as she sensed his closeness. He murmured something she couldn’t hear, but she didn’t care, something about his voice mesmerised her. It evoked the contours of his mouth, his moist lips, the smile she had always found so troubling. Inhaling the warmth of his skin stirred her desire; she longed for him, eyes closed, holding her breath, as her senses yielded to pleasure. She felt his lips on her neck, descending in a slow, unstoppable advance, like lava flowing from a volcano. Every nerve in her body was engaged in a furious struggle between pleasure and pain, pleading for more, wanting more, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling, her nipples contracting, a burning sensation between her thighs. She opened her eyes, glancing about, confused. The little light she always left on at night permitted her to recognise the familiar shape of their bedroom in Engrasi’s house. Her body tensed, alarmed. James whispered in her ear as he went on kissing her.

      It was daylight, and Ibai was already awake. She could hear him moving, gurgling softly as he kicked his legs in the air, pushing off the duvet, which would end up at the foot of his cot. She didn’t open her eyes immediately; it had taken her ages to fall asleep again after they made love, and, eyelids still heavy, she relished the idea of lazing in bed for another five minutes. She heard James get up, gather Ibai in his arms and whisper to him:

      ‘Are you hungry? We’ll let Ama snooze.’

      She heard them leave the room, as she lay there, trying in vain to relax into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. All of a sudden, the dream about Markina came flooding back. She knew better than anyone that we aren’t responsible for our dreams, that the most pleasurable fantasies and the sickest nightmares come from a mysterious, unreachable place beyond our control. Still, she felt guilty. Wide-awake now, irritated at having had to renounce those five extra minutes of peace, she analysed her feelings. She realised the sense of guilt came not from having dreamt about Markina, but rather because she had made love with her husband stimulated by the desire she felt for the judge.

      As James entered the room, bringing her a cup of coffee, the mobile on her bedside table made an unpleasant buzzing noise.

      ‘Good morning, Iriarte.’

      ‘Good morning, Inspector. We’ve just had a call from the prison in Pamplona. Berasategui has been found dead in his cell.’

      She hung up, leapt to her feet, dressing between sips of coffee. She hated drinking it like that; she’d got into the habit of drinking her morning coffee in bed back when she was a student and it remained her preferred way to start the morning. Rushing to get ready was something she detested; it always augured a bad day.

      The prison governor was waiting for them at the entrance, pacing up and down like a caged animal. He extended his hand courteously, then invited them to follow him to his office. Amaia refused, requesting to see the body immediately.

      A guard escorted them through the various security gates until they reached the isolation cells. They could tell which one was Berasategui’s from the guard posted outside the metal door.

      ‘The doctor found no signs of violence on the body,’ explained the director. ‘He was placed in isolation yesterday at Judge Markina’s request, and hadn’t spoken to anyone since.’ He signalled to the guard to unlock the door, then ushered them in.

      ‘But someone must have come in here,’ said Inspector Montes, ‘if only to confirm that he was dead.’

      ‘One of the guards noticed he wasn’t moving and raised the alarm. The only people to have entered the cell are the prison doctor, who confirmed that he was dead, and myself. We called you immediately. It appears he died of natural causes.’

      The cell, which contained no personal effects, was clean and tidy, the bedclothes smoothed out, military fashion. Dr Berasategui lay face up on his bunk, fully dressed down to his shoes, face relaxed, eyes closed. The scent of his cologne filled the cell, yet the perfect neatness of his clothes, his hands clasped on his chest, gave the impression of an embalmed corpse.

      ‘Natural causes, you say?’ Amaia frowned. ‘This was a thirty-six-year-old man who kept himself in good shape; he even had a gym in his apartment. Not only that, he was a doctor, so he’d have been the first to know if he was unwell, don’t you think?’

      ‘I must admit, this is the best-looking corpse I’ve ever seen!’ Montes joked, nudging Zabalza, who was searching the perimeter of the cell with a flashlight.

      Amaia pulled on the gloves Inspector Etxaide handed to her and approached the bunk. She studied the body in silence for a few minutes, until she became aware of Dr San Martín standing behind her.

      ‘What have we here, Inspector? The prison doctor tells me there are no signs of violence, and suggests death by natural causes.’

      ‘There are no objects in here with which he could have harmed himself,’ said Montes, ‘and whatever the cause of death, you can see from looking at him that he didn’t suffer.’

      ‘Well, if you’ve finished here, I’ll take him away. The results of the autopsy should be ready later today.’

      ‘Berasategui didn’t die of natural causes,’ Amaia broke in. The others said nothing, and she thought she heard Zabalza sigh. ‘Look at the way he’s arranged, right in the centre of the bed. Clothes smoothed out, shoes polished. Hands placed exactly as he’d want us to see them when we walked in here. This guy was a proud, vain narcissist, who would never have let us discover him in an embarrassing or humiliating attitude.’

      ‘Suicide doesn’t fit the profile of a narcissistic personality,’ Jonan ventured.

      ‘Yes, I know, that’s what threw me when we walked in. On the one hand, it fits; on the other, it doesn’t. Suicide may not be typical of someone with