14

      In accordance with Amaia’s orders, Dr San Martín had started the autopsy without them. When she and Etxaide approached the steel table, at the centre of a room filled with medical students, the pathologist had his back to them, and was busy weighing the internal organs on a scale. He turned, smiling when he saw them.

      ‘Just in time, we’re almost done. The toxicology tests show high levels of an extremely powerful sedative. We’ve identified the active ingredient, but I won’t hazard a guess as to the name of the drug. As a doctor, Berasategui would have known which one to use and how much to take. Most are injectable, but the small abrasions on the sides of the tongue suggest he took it orally.’

      Amaia leaned over to examine through the magnifying glass the row of tiny blisters either side of the tongue, which San Martín was holding up for her with a pair of forceps.

      ‘I can smell a sweet, acidic odour,’ she remarked.

      ‘Yes, it’s more noticeable now. Perhaps the cologne Berasategui doused himself in masked it. A vain fellow indeed.’

      Amaia examined the body as she listened to San Martín. The ‘Y’ incision started at the shoulders, travelling down the chest to the pelvis, laying bare the glistening insides, whose vivid colours had always fascinated her. On this occasion, San Martín and his team had forced open the ribcage to extract and weigh the internal organs, doubtless interested to see the effects of a powerful sedative on a healthy young male. The startlingly white ribs pointed up towards the ceiling. The denuded bones had a surreal look, like the frame of a boat, or a dead whale’s skeleton, or the long, eerie fingers of some inner creature trying to climb out of his dead body. No other surgical procedure quite resembled an autopsy; the only word that came close to describing it was wondrous. She understood the fascination it held for Ripper-type murderers, many of whom were skilled at making precise incisions at exactly the right depth to enable them to extract the organs in a particular order without damaging them.

      Amaia observed the assistants and medical students, listening attentively to San Martín, as he pointed to the different sections of the liver, explaining how it had stopped functioning. By then, Berasategui was almost certainly unconscious. He had sought a dignified, painless death, but even he couldn’t avoid the procedure, which, he knew would inevitably follow. Berasategui hadn’t wanted to die, he had certainly never considered taking his own life. A narcissist like him would only have accepted suicide if he were forced to relinquish the control he exercised over others. And yet she had seen for herself how he had surmounted that obstacle in prison. He’d done what he did, against his own will, and that constituted a discrepancy, an abnormal element, which Amaia couldn’t ignore. Berasategui had wept over his own suicide like a condemned man forced to walk a green mile from which there was no return.

      Turning to share her thoughts with Jonan, she saw that he was standing back, behind the students gathered around San Martín. Arms folded, he was gazing at the nightmarish vision of the wet, naked corpse splayed open on a table, ribs exposed to the air.

      ‘Come closer, Deputy Inspector Etxaide, I’ve been saving the stomach until last … I thought you’d be interested to see the contents, although there’s no doubt he swallowed the sedative.’

      One of the assistants placed a strainer over a beaker, and then, tilting the stomach, which San Martín had clamped at one end, she emptied the viscid, yellow contents into the receptacle. The stench of vomit mixed with the tranquiliser was nauseating. Amaia looked on as Jonan retched, and the students exchanged knowing looks.

      ‘Here we see traces of sedative,’ said San Martín, ‘indicating that he reduced his food and liquid intake in order to absorb the drug more rapidly. The contact of the drug with the mucous membrane stimulated the production of stomach acid. It would be interesting to dissect the intestine, trachea and oesophagus to see how it affected those organs.’

      The suggestion was greeted with general enthusiasm except by Amaia.

      ‘We’d love to stay, Doctor, but have to get back to Elizondo. If you’d be so kind as to give us the name of the sedative as soon as possible; we already know one of the guards supplied him with it, and probably also removed the empty phial. Having the name would help us find out how he got hold of it and whether he acted alone.’

      Jonan was visibly relieved at the news. After saying goodbye to San Martín, he walked ahead of her towards the exit, trying not to touch anything. Amaia followed, amused at his behaviour.

      ‘Hold on a moment.’ San Martín handed over the reins to one of his assistants, and, tossing his gloves into a waste bin, plucked an envelope from his pigeonhole. ‘The test results of the decaying matter on the toy bear.’

      Amaia’s interest quickened.

      ‘I thought they’d take much longer …’

      ‘Yes, the process was problematic because of the singular nature of the sample. Doubtless a copy will be waiting for you in Elizondo, but since you’re here …’

      ‘What’s so special about the sample? Isn’t it saliva?’

      ‘Possibly. In fact, everything suggests that it is indeed saliva. The singularity resides in the vast quantity of bacteria present in the fluid, hence the ghastly stench. And, of course, the fact that it isn’t human.’

      ‘It is saliva, but it isn’t human? Where is it from then, an animal?’

      ‘The fluid resembles saliva, and it could come from an animal, although, judging from those levels of bacteria, I’d say a dead one. I’m no expert in zoology, but the only animal I can think of is a Komodo dragon.’

      Amaia’s eyes opened wide with surprise.

      ‘I know,’ declared San Martín. ‘It sounds absurd, and, needless to say we have no sample of Komodo dragon saliva with which to compare it. But that’s what came to mind when I saw the amount of bacteria it contained. Enough to cause septicaemia in anyone who touched it.’

      ‘I know a zoologist who might be able to help us. Has a sample been kept?’

      He shook his head. ‘It was relatively fresh when the toy bear arrived at the lab, but I’m afraid it degraded too quickly to be of use.’

      Amaia always let Jonan drive when she needed to think. Berasategui’s suicide had taken them by surprise, but it was the conversation with Sarasola that was occupying her mind. The murder of Valentín Esparza’s little girl, his attempt to make off with her body, a body he insisted shouldn’t be cremated. But more than anything, it was the coffin weighted with bags of sugar that had brought back the painful image of another white coffin resting in her family vault in San Sebastián; only a month ago she had prised it open to discover that someone had replaced the body with bags of gravel.

      She