Offering to the Storm. Dolores Redondo
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and the Golden Girls appeared to have relinquished their regular card game in favour of a joyous ritual that consisted of passing Ibai from one lap to the next and making googly eyes at him as they clucked merrily. She managed with some effort to prise away the child, who was infected by the old ladies’ laughter.
‘You’re spoiling him,’ she chided jokingly. ‘He’s having too much fun, he won’t go to sleep,’ she added, whisking the baby upstairs amid their angry protests.
She placed Ibai in his cot while she prepared his bath, slipping out of her warm jumper, and placing her holstered gun on top of the wardrobe. She’d have to find a safer place for it, she reflected. Three-year-olds were like monkeys and could climb anything. Back in Pamplona, she kept it locked in the safe, and they were planning to install a safe at Juanitaenea. Her thoughts drifted to the pallets outside the house and the stalled building work. Picking up her phone, she tried James’s mobile again; two rings only, as if he’d refused her call.
She took her time bathing Ibai; he loved being in the water, and she loved seeing her child so happy and relaxed. And yet she had to admit that James’s silence was starting to affect her ability to enjoy even this special time with their son. Once Ibai was dry and in his pyjamas, she dialled James’s number again, only to be cut off a second time. She sent a text: James. I’m worried, call me. A minute later he texted back: I’m busy.
Ibai fell asleep as soon as he had finished his bottle. She plugged in the baby monitor, then went down to sit with Ros and her aunt, who were watching television. She couldn’t concentrate on anything that wasn’t the sound of tyres on the cobblestones outside. Hearing James’s car pull up, she slipped on her coat and went outside to greet him. He was sitting motionless in the car the engine switched off and the lights out. She climbed into the passenger seat.
‘For heaven’s sake, James! I was worried.’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ he replied coolly.
‘You could have called—’
‘So could you,’ he interrupted.
Stunned by his response, she went on the defensive.
‘I called several times, but you didn’t pick up.’
‘Yeah, at six in the evening. Why didn’t you call during the day?’
She accepted his reproach, then felt a flash of anger.
‘So you saw my call but didn’t pick up. What’s going on, James?’
‘You tell me, Amaia.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
He shrugged.
‘You don’t know what I’m talking about? Fine, then there’s no problem,’ he said, making to get out of the car.
‘James,’ she restrained him with a gesture. ‘Why are you doing this to me? I don’t understand what’s going on. All I know is that you had a meeting today with representatives of the Banque National de Paris. You haven’t even told me how it went.’
‘Do you care?’
She studied his profile as he stared straight ahead, jaw clenched in anger. Her handsome boy was getting frustrated, and she knew she was to blame. Softly, her voice laced with affection, she protested: ‘How can you even ask me that? Of course I care, James – you mean more to me than anything in the world.’
He looked at her, struggling to keep a stern face as the expression in his eyes melted. He smiled weakly.
‘It went okay,’ he conceded.
‘Oh, come on! Just okay, or really well?’
He beamed. ‘It went well, incredibly well.’
She flung her arms around him, kneeling on her seat so that she could hold him tight. They kissed. Just then, her phone rang. James pulled a face as she fumbled for it in her pocket.
‘I have to take this, it’s the police station,’ she said, freeing herself from the embrace.
‘Inspector Salazar, Elena Ochoa’s daughter just called. I wouldn’t have bothered you, but she insisted, she says it’s urgent … I’ve texted you her number.’
‘I need to make a quick call,’ she told James, clambering out of the car. Moving out of earshot, she dialled the number. Marilena Ochoa answered immediately.
‘Inspector, I’m in Elizondo. After everything that’s happened, we decided to stay the night. When I went to bed just now, I found a letter from my mother under the pillow.’ The young woman’s voice, which had sounded strong, buoyed by a sense of urgency, gave way as she started to cry. ‘I can’t believe it, but it seems you’re right and she did take her own life … she left a note,’ she said, overcome with grief. ‘I did everything I could to help her, I did what the doctors said, I played down her paranoia, her fears … And she left a note. But not for me, for you.’ The young woman broke down. Realising she would get no more sense out of her, Amaia waited until the person she could hear in the background trying to console Marilena came on the phone.
‘Inspector, this is Luis, Marilena’s boyfriend. Please come and get the letter.’
James had stepped out of the car. She walked over and stood looking up at him.
‘James, it’s within walking distance, I need to pick up a document here in Elizondo. I can walk there,’ she added, as if to prove that she wouldn’t be long.
He leaned forward to kiss her, and without saying a word entered the house.
Winter had returned with a vengeance after a lull of a few hours. She regretted not picking up her scarf and gloves on her way out as she felt the cold north wind blow through the empty streets of Elizondo. Turning up the collar of her coat, she clasped it about her neck and set off at a brisk pace towards Elena Ochoa’s house. She rang the doorbell and waited, shivering in the wind. The boyfriend opened the door, but refrained from asking her in.
‘She’s exhausted,’ he explained. ‘She took a sleeping pill, and it’s knocked her out.’
‘I understand,’ said Amaia. ‘This is a terrible blow …’
He handed her a long white envelope, which she could see was unopened. Her name was written on the front. She slipped it into her pocket, noticing the look of relief on the young man’s face as he watched it disappear.
‘I’ll keep you informed.’
‘If that letter is what we think it is, please don’t bother – she’s suffered enough.’
Amaia followed the bend in the river, drawn by the orange lights in the square, which gave a false impression of warmth on that cold, dark night. She walked past the Lamia fountain, which only gushed water when it rained, and carried on walking until she came to the town hall, where she paused to run the fingers of one hand over the smooth surface of the botil harri. Her other hand was still clutching the envelope in her pocket; it gave off an unpleasant heat, as though contained within were the last flicker of the author’s life.
The wind swept through the square in great gusts, making it impossible for her to stop and read the letter. She headed down Calle Jaime Urrutia, hesitating beneath each streetlamp looking for a sheltered spot. She didn’t want to read it at home. Finding nowhere, she crossed the bridge, where the wind’s roar vied with the noise of the weir. Reaching Hostal Trinkete, she turned right and made her way towards the only place where she knew she would enjoy complete solitude. She felt in her pocket for the silky cord her father had fastened to the key all those years ago. When she inserted it in the lock, the key turned halfway but would go no further. She tried again, even though she realised Ros had changed the lock on the bakery door. Surprised and pleased