Offering to the Storm. Dolores Redondo
Читать онлайн книгу.
a while. But it was his remark about giving up his daughter to Inguma, the demon that robbed children’s breath, ‘like all the other sacrifices’, that continued to echo in her head. He had smothered his daughter. Traces of his skin and saliva had been found on the toy; besides the mystery of the unknown bacteria, the method was painfully familiar.
She called ahead to Elizondo to convene a meeting as soon as they arrived, but otherwise she hardly spoke during the journey. It wasn’t raining that afternoon, although it was so damp and cold that Jonan decided to park in the garage. As she was reaching to open the car door, she turned to him.
‘Jonan, could you collect some data on the frequency of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome in the valley in the last five years, say?’
‘Of course, I’ll get on to it right away,’ he said with a smile.
‘And you can wipe that grin off your face. I don’t believe for a moment that a demon is responsible for the Esparza girl’s death. However, I have a witness who says that a sect was set up in a farmhouse here in the valley in the seventies, a sort of hippy commune. They started to dabble in the occult, and went as far as carrying out ritual animal sacrifices. The witness claims there was some talk about sacrificing humans, specifically newborn babies. When the witness stopped attending the meetings, she was harassed by some of the other sect members. She can’t remember exactly how long the gatherings continued, but in all likelihood the group eventually dispersed. As I say, it was clearly the father not a demon who killed that child. But in light of Esparza’s attempt to abduct the body, together with what Sarasola told us, and the proliferation of sects and other cults known to European police forces, I think it’s worth checking for any statistical anomalies in infant death rates here in the valley compared to other regions and countries.’
‘Do you think your sister’s body may have suffered the same fate?’
‘I don’t know, Jonan, but the feeling of déjà vu when I saw the photographs of that empty coffin convinced me we’re looking at the same modus operandi. This isn’t evidence, it’s just a hunch, which may lead nowhere. Let’s compare your data with that of our colleagues, and then we’ll see.’
She was about to enter the house when her phone rang. The screen showed an unknown number.
‘Inspector Salazar,’ she said, answering.
‘Is it nighttime already in Baztán, Inspector?’
She recognised instantly the gravelly voice on the other end of the phone, even though he was speaking in a whisper.
‘Aloisius! But, what is this number …?’
‘It’s a safe number, but you mustn’t call me on it. I’ll call you when you need me.’
She didn’t bother to ask how he would know when she needed him. Somehow their relationship had always been like that. She moved away from the house and spent the next few minutes explaining to Dupree everything she knew about the case: her belief that her mother was alive, the dead girl that had to be given up, Elena Ochoa’s behaviour, Berasategui’s message from her mother, and his staged suicide. The unusual saliva sample resembling that of an ancient reptile which only existed on the far away island of Komodo …’
He listened to her in silence, and, when she had finished, he asked:
‘You’re faced with a complex puzzle, but that’s not why you called … What did you want to ask me about?’
‘The dead girl’s great grandmother claimed that a demon by the name of Inguma entered through a crack, sat on the girl’s chest, and sucked the air from her lungs; she says that this demon has appeared on other occasions, and taken many children’s lives. Father Sarasola explained to me that Inguma exists in other cultures: Sumerian, African, and Hmong, as well as in the old, dark folktales of the Baztán Valley.’
She heard a deep sigh on the other end of the phone. Then nothing. Silence.
‘Aloisius, are you there?’
‘I can’t talk any more. I’ll try to send you something in the next few days … I have to hang up now.’
The disconnection tone reached her through the earpiece.
Ros Salazar had smoked from the age of seventeen up until the moment when she decided she wanted to become a mother. But apparently that wasn’t to be. Since separating from Freddy, her relations with men had amounted to a few half-hearted flirtations in bars; Elizondo didn’t offer too many other options when it came to finding a partner, so the chances of meeting someone new were minimal. And yet she still found herself increasingly obsessed about her prospects of becoming a mother, even though in her case that would probably mean going it alone. With that in mind, she had refrained from taking up smoking again, although occasionally, late at night, after her aunt went to bed, she would roll a joint. Afterwards, on the pretext of getting some fresh air, she would walk to the bakery. There she would sit in her office, peacefully smoking, enjoying the solitude of remaining behind in her place of business after everyone else had gone home.
She was surprised to see that the lights were still on, her immediate assumption being that Ernesto had forgotten to switch them off before locking up. As she opened the door, she noticed that her office light was also on. She reached for her phone, punched in the number for the emergency services, her finger poised over the call button, then shouted:
‘Who’s there? The police are on their way.’
She heard a sudden noise of things being moved, a thud followed by a rustle.
Just as she pressed the button, Flora’s voice rang out:
‘Ros, it’s only me …’
‘Flora?’ she said, ending the call and approaching the office. ‘What are you doing here? I thought we were being burgled.’
‘I …’ Flora faltered. ‘I thought … I was sure I’d forgotten something, and I came to see if I’d left it here.’
‘What?’
Flora glanced about nervously.
‘My bag,’ she lied.
‘Your bag?’ repeated Ros. ‘Well, it’s not here.’
‘I can see that, and I was just leaving,’ she said, pushing past her sister towards the exit.
A moment later, Ros heard the heavy door of the bakery slam shut. She scanned the office, scrutinising each object. She had surprised Flora doing something suspicious, that much was clear, something that had caused her to make up that ridiculous excuse about her bag. But what could have prompted her to sneak into the bakery in the middle of the night?
Ros moved the swivel chair out from behind the desk and placed it in the centre of the room. She sat down, felt in her pocket for the joint she had brought with her, and lit it. She took a long draw, which made her feel dizzy. She exhaled, leaning back in the chair and turning in a slow circle, letting each object in the room tell its story. One hour and several turns later, her eye alighted on the wall where her favourite painting of the covered market hung. She would often contemplate the scene, because of the calm it radiated, but that wasn’t what drew her attention now. The painting had spoken. She rose to make sure she had interpreted its message correctly, smiling when she saw the heel marks left by Flora’s shoes on the sofa below. She stood on the same spot, and lifted the frame, which was heavier than she’d expected.
She wasn’t surprised to see the safe, she knew it was there; Flora had installed it years ago, to keep the cash with which to pay their suppliers. Nowadays, she paid them by bank transfer, so, to all intents and purposes, the safe should have been empty. Resting the painting on the sofa, Ros ran her fingers over the wheel lock, although she realised there was no point in trying the combination. She returned to the chair, gazing at that box buried in the wall, musing over many