Offering to the Storm. Dolores Redondo
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curiosity piqued, San Martín approached Berasategui’s corpse, felt his throat, lifted his eyelids and looked down his throat.
‘All the hallmarks of a heart attack, but it’s true he was relatively young and in good shape. On the other hand, there are no lesions, no defensive wounds, or other signs of injury. Anyone would think,’ said the doctor, looking round at the company, ‘that he simply lay down and died.’
‘Quite right, Doctor. That’s exactly what he did: he lay down and died. But to do that, he needed help. How long had he been in isolation?’ she said, addressing the director.
‘Since approximately eleven o’clock yesterday morning, shortly after Judge Markina called me. I was away, but my deputy informed me fifteen minutes after he’d been moved.’
‘Are there any cameras in these cells?’ asked Montes, shining a flashlight into the corners of the room.
‘No, they aren’t necessary. Guards monitor prisoners in isolation through the windows in the cell doors. But we have CCTV out in the corridors. I assumed you’d want to see the tape, so I’ve prepared a copy.’
‘What about the two men who were guarding him yesterday?’
‘They’ve been suspended, pending an investigation of that other incident,’ replied the director, looking uncomfortable.
Montes and Etxaide, having no idea what this ‘other incident’ might be, turned to look at her, demanding answers. Ignoring them, Amaia approached the bunk once more and said:
‘Dr Berasategui had no wish to die, but his personality prevented him from permitting another to take his life for him.’
‘He didn’t want to die, yet he killed himself …?’
She leaned over the body, illuminating his face with her flashlight. Berasategui’s bronzed skin revealed a whitish residue confined to the wrinkles around his eyes.
‘Tears,’ announced San Martín.
‘Yes, sir,’ she agreed. ‘True to his nature as a narcissist, Berasategui lay down here, out of self-pity, wept over his own death. Copiously,’ she said, feeling a patch of fabric visibly darker than the rest. ‘He cried so much he soaked the pillow with his tears.’
Montes felt satisfied. The CCTV footage revealed a guard approaching Berasategui’s cell, and slipping something through the window, which, although it wasn’t visible on camera could easily have been something he used to kill himself. The guard had finished his shift and made himself scarce by the time they sent a patrol car to his house. He was probably in France or Portugal by now. Even so, knowing that bastard Berasategui was dead had made Montes’s day.
As he leaned forward to turn on the radio, the car swerved slightly, the front tyre touching the white line at the side of the road.
‘Careful!’ cried Zabalza from the passenger seat. He’d been subdued throughout the journey and Montes assumed he was sulking because he’d refused to let him drive. What the hell! No brat was going to take the wheel while Montes was in the car. He glanced sidelong at him, grinning.
‘Calm down, you’re as a tense as a teenage boy’s scrotum,’ he said, laughing at his own joke, until he saw that Zabalza was still irritated.
‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘She drives me crazy …’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think? The fucking star cop.’
‘Watch your mouth, lad!’ warned Montes.
‘Didn’t you see that mystical act she puts on? The way she stood looking at Berasategui’s body, as if she felt sorry for him, waiting for the room to go quiet before she spoke, as if she was about to pass judgement. As for that bullshit about him crying – for fuck’s sake! Everyone knows that corpses cry, piss themselves, leak fluid from every orifice.’
‘Berasategui certainly didn’t piss himself … I imagine he was careful not to drink anything, because he wanted to be immaculate when we found him. Besides, the pillow was sodden. I think the guy really did weep over his own death.’
‘Rubbish,’ scoffed Zabalza.
‘No, it isn’t rubbish. You should be watching, not criticising, you might learn something.’
‘Who from? That clown?’
The two men were thrown forward slightly, as Montes stepped on the brakes, pulling over into a lay-by.
‘Why did you do that?’ Zabalza cried, startled.
‘Because I don’t want to hear you talk about Inspector Salazar like that again. Not only is she your superior, she’s an outstanding police officer and a loyal colleague.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Fermín!’ Zabalza laughed. ‘Don’t get so upset. You’re the one who coined the phrase “star cop” remember.’
Montes looked straight at him as he started the car again.
‘You’re right, and I was wrong. They say hindsight is twenty-twenty, don’t they? If you have any problems, you can always come to me, but I warn you, I won’t hear any more of this kind of talk,’ he said, joining the motorway again.
‘I don’t have any problems,’ muttered Zabalza.
As she left the cell, Amaia noticed the prison governor standing further along the corridor talking to Judge Markina, whose hushed voice brought back vivid recollections of her dream the night before. She concentrated on the brief summary she would give him before making her escape, but it was too late, the murmur of his voice had drawn her in, even though she was too far away to hear what he was saying. She stood watching his gesticulations, his habit of touching his face when he spoke, the way his jeans narrowed at the waist, how the blue of his shirt gave him a youthful air. She found herself speculating about how old he was, thinking it odd that she didn’t know. She waited for Dr San Martín to arrive and then joined them. She did her best to avoid Markina’s gaze while she gave a brief report, but without making it too obvious.
‘Will you attend the autopsy, Inspector?’ asked San Martín, with a sweeping gesture that included Deputy Inspector Etxaide.
‘Start without me, Doctor, I’ll join you later. Perhaps you’d like to go, Jonan, there’s something I have to do first,’ she added evasively.
‘Going home again today, boss?’ he teased.
She smiled, admiring his astuteness.
‘All right, Deputy Inspector, would you like to come with me?’
The receptionist at the University Hospital hadn’t forgotten Amaia, judging by the way the woman’s face froze the instant she saw her. Even so, the inspector fished out her badge, prodding Jonan to do likewise. Both detectives placed their badges squarely on the counter.
‘We’d like to see Dr Sarasola, please.’
‘I don’t know if he’s here,’ the woman replied, picking up the receiver. She gave their names, listened to the reply then, with a sour expression, motioned towards the lift doors. ‘Fourth floor, they’ll show you the way.’ There was a tone of caution in the woman’s voice as she said these last words. Amaia grinned at her and winked, then started towards the lift.
Sarasola received them in his office, behind a desk heaped with papers, which he pushed aside. He stood up, accompanying them to the chairs over by the window.
‘I imagine you’re