Offering to the Storm. Dolores Redondo
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She swallowed a mouthful of cold coffee, screwing up her face in disgust as she banished the cup to the edge of her desk. She had eaten nothing since breakfast; the vision of Elena Ochoa, slumped over in a pool of her own blood, had taken away her appetite, as well as something else: the slim hope that Elena might have eventually overcome her fears and talked. If only she had told her where the sect’s house was located … She sensed it played a vital role.
Elena’s death, coming on the heels of Berasategui’s, had confounded her. She felt that events were slipping through her fingers, as if she were trying to hold back the River Baztán. In front of her on the desk was a pile of papers: Deputy Inspector Etxaide’s report on cot deaths in the area; a transcript of her conversation with Valentín Esparza in his cell; Berasategui’s autopsy report; a few sheets of A4 filled with her scribbled notes. Unfortunately, after digesting the contents she was left with the impression that nothing stacked up: she was at an impasse, rudderless. She skimmed through the sheets of paper, frustrated.
She checked the time on her watch: coming up to four o’clock. San Martín had called her an hour earlier to give her the number of the pathologist who had carried out the autopsies on the babies mentioned in Jonan’s report. He had briefed the woman and arranged that Amaia would call her at four o’clock. She picked up the telephone, waiting until the last second before dialling the number.
If the doctor was surprised by her punctuality, she didn’t mention it.
‘Dr San Martín told me you are interested in two particular cases. I remember them well, but I’ve dug out my notes, to be on the safe side. Two healthy female babies, with nothing in their autopsies to suggest they died from anything other than natural causes – if we consider death from SIDS to be a natural cause. Both the doctors who signed the respective death certificates entered SIDS as the cause. One of the babies was sleeping on her front, the other on her back. In both cases, my misgivings were caused by the parents’ behaviour.’
‘Their behaviour?’
‘I met with one couple at the request of the father. He became threatening, told me that he’d read about pathologists holding on to people’s organs, and that his daughter had better be intact after the autopsy. I tried to reassure him that organs were only removed in cases where the family had given their consent, or if a person left their body to research. But what shocked me most was when he declared that he knew how much a dead child’s organs could fetch on the black market. I told him that if he meant donor organs then he was mistaken; they would need to be removed under strict medical conditions immediately post-mortem. He insisted he wasn’t referring to the black market in donor organs, but in dead bodies. His wife tried to shut him up, she kept apologising to me, and blaming his outburst on the trauma they were going through. But I believed he was serious; despite being an ignorant oaf, he knew what he was talking about. The reason why I contacted social services was primarily because I felt sorry for their other child, the baby’s older brother, sitting in the waiting room, listening to his father mouth off like that. I didn’t think it would do any harm if they took a look at the family.
‘The other couple’s behaviour was also shocking, but in a completely different way. When I walked into the waiting room at the Institute of Forensic Medicine to tell them we would soon be releasing their daughter’s body, far from grieving they looked positively euphoric. I’ve seen many responses in my time, ranging from sorrow through to utter indifference, but when I left that room and heard the husband assure his wife that from then on their fortunes would improve, I confess I was shocked. I thought they might be words of reassurance, but when I turned to look at them, they were smiling. Not in a forced way, as if they were trying to be strong, but because they were happy.’ The doctor paused as she remembered. ‘I’ve seen deeply religious people respond to the death of their loved ones in a similar way, because they believe they are going to heaven, but in those cases, the dominant emotion is resignation. This couple weren’t resigned, they were joyous.
‘I alerted social services because they had two other young children, aged two and three, and the family were living in a relative’s basement apartment with no central heating. The husband had been on benefits his whole life. According to the social worker, despite the hardships they clearly suffered, the surviving children were well looked after, as was the brother of the other deceased baby. So, no further action was taken.’
Amaia was about to speak when the pathologist added: ‘When Dr San Martín called me today, I remembered a third case, back in March 1997, towards the end of the Easter holidays. The date stuck in my mind because a train derailed in Huarte Arakil killing eighteen people, so we were inundated, and then a case of cot death came in. On this occasion too, the parents asked to see me, refusing to leave until they had spoken to me. It was pitiful. The wife was dying of cancer. They begged me to speed up the process so that they could take the body. Again, they appeared less grief-stricken than one would expect under the circumstances. Indeed, the contrast between that couple and the distraught relatives of the train-crash victims couldn’t have been starker. They might as well have been waiting to pick up their car from the garage. I checked at the time, and they had no other children so there was no cause for social services to be involved.
‘Give me an address, and I’ll send you my notes, together with the number of the social worker who dealt with the other two cases, in case you want to speak to her.’
‘One other thing, Doctor,’ Amaia said.
‘Of course.’
‘The last case you mentioned – was that a baby girl, too?’
There was a pause while the doctor checked her notes.
‘Yes, a baby girl.’
Within an hour, the social worker had dug out the files and returned Amaia’s call. Both cases had been closed with no further action taken. One family had received financial assistance, which they’d elected to discontinue. That was all the information she had.
Amaia called Jonan. To her surprise, he seemed to have switched off his mobile. Crossing the corridor, she knocked gently on the open door of the room where Zabalza and Montes were working.
‘Inspector Montes, could we have a word in my office?’
He did as she asked, closing the door behind him.
‘Deputy Inspector Etxaide has put together a report on all the families in Baztán who have lost children to SIDS. At first glance, nothing stands out, but the pathologist referred two couples to social services. During our conversation, she referred to a third case in which the parents also behaved strangely. One of the couples, she said, seemed positively elated. Another received state benefits for a while, but then signed off. I’d like you to pay both families a visit this morning; invent whatever pretext you want, but avoid any mention of babies.’
Montes sighed. ‘That’s a hard one for me, boss,’ he said, flicking through the reports. ‘Nothing makes me more angry than parents who can’t look after their kids.’
‘Be honest, Montes, everything makes you angry,’ she retorted. He flashed her a grin. ‘Take Zabalza with you, it will do him good to get out of the office – besides, he’s more tactful than you. Incidentally, have you any idea where Jonan is?’
‘It’s his afternoon off, he told me he had things to do …’
Amaia was busy jotting down what the pathologist and the social worker had told her; for a moment, she didn’t notice that Montes was still hovering by the door.
‘Fermín, was there anything else?’
He stood looking at her for a few seconds, then shook his head.
‘No, nothing.’
He opened the door and went out into the corridor, leaving Amaia with the sensation that she was missing something important.
Preoccupied, she had to admit that she was getting nowhere. She put away the documents, and, glancing