2

      Amaia had been watching the house for twenty minutes from her car. With the engine switched off and the windows closed against the steady drizzle, condensation had formed on the windows, blurring the contours of the building with the dark shutters.

      Presently, a small car pulled up outside the front door. A young man stepped out, opened his umbrella, and leaned over the dashboard to pick up a notebook, which he glanced at before tossing it back in the car. Then he went to the boot, retrieved a flat package and walked up to the house.

      Amaia drew level with him just as he rang the doorbell.

      ‘Excuse me, who are you?’

      ‘Social services, we deliver this gentleman’s meals every day,’ he replied, indicating the plastic tray in his hand. ‘He’s housebound, and has no one else to take care of him. Are you a relative?’ he enquired hopefully.

      ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Navarre police.’

      ‘Ah,’ he said, losing interest.

      He rang the bell again, then, leaning close to the door, shouted:

      ‘Señor Yáñez. It’s Mikel. From social services. Remember me? I’ve brought your lun—’

      Before he could finish his sentence, the door swung open, and Yáñez’s wrinkled, grey face appeared.

      ‘I remember you, I’m not senile, you know … Or deaf,’ he replied, irritated.

      ‘Of course not, Señor Yáñez,’ said Mikel, smiling as he brushed past him into the house.

      Amaia fumbled for her badge to show Yáñez.

      ‘There’s no need,’ he said, recognising her and moving aside to let her pass.

      Over his corduroy trousers and woollen sweater, Yáñez wore a thick dressing gown, the colour of which Amaia couldn’t make out in the gloomy house. She followed Yáñez down the corridor to the kitchen, where a fluorescent light bulb flickered before coming on.

      ‘Señor Yáñez!’ the young man exclaimed in an over-loud voice. ‘You didn’t eat your supper last night!’ He was standing by the open fridge, exchanging food trays wrapped in cling film. ‘I’ll have to log that in my report, you know. Don’t go blaming me if the doctor tells you off,’ he added, as if speaking to a child.

      ‘Log it wherever you want,’ muttered Yáñez.

      ‘Didn’t you like the fish in tomato sauce?’ Mikel went on, ignoring his reply. ‘Today you’ve got stewed meat and chickpeas, with yoghurt for pudding, and soup, omelette and sponge cake for supper.’ He spun round holding the untouched supper tray, then crouched under the sink, tied a knot in a small rubbish bag containing only a few discarded wrappings, and started towards the door. Pausing next to Yáñez, he addressed him once more in an over-loud voice: ‘All done, Señor Yáñez, bon appetit, until tomorrow.’ Then he turned to leave, nodding to Amaia on the way out.

      Yáñez waited until he heard the front door close before speaking.

      ‘What do you make of that? And today he stayed longer than usual. Normally he can’t get away quick enough,’ he added, turning out the kitchen light, and leaving Amaia to make her way to the sitting room in semi-darkness. ‘This house gives him the creeps. And I don’t blame him, it’s like visiting a cemetery.’

      A sheet, two thick blankets and a pillow lay partially draped over the brown velvet sofa. Amaia assumed that Yáñez not only slept, but lived in this one room. Amid the gloom, she could see what looked like crumbs on the blankets and an orangish stain, possibly egg yolk. Amaia studied Yáñez as he sat down and leaned back against the pillow. A month had gone by since she’d interviewed him at the police station. He was awaiting trial under house arrest because of his age. He had lost weight, and his hard, suspicious expression had sharpened, giving him the air of an eccentric hermit. His hair was well kept, and he was clean-shaven, but Amaia wondered how long he’d been wearing the pyjama top showing beneath his sweater. The house was freezing, and clearly hadn’t been heated for days. Opposite the sofa, in front of the empty hearth, a flat-screen TV cast a cold, blue light over the room.

      ‘May I open the shutters?’ asked Amaia.

      ‘If you insist, but leave them as they were before you go.’

      She nodded, pushing open the wooden panels to allow the gloomy Baztán light to seep through. When she turned around, Yáñez was staring at the television.

      ‘Señor Yáñez.’

      The man continued gazing at the screen as if she wasn’t there.

      ‘Señor Yáñez …’

      He glanced at her, irritated.

      ‘I’d like to …’ she began, motioning towards the corridor. ‘I’d like to have a look round.’

      ‘Go ahead,’ he said, with a wave of his hand. ‘Look all you like, just don’t touch anything. After the police were here, the place was a mess. It took me ages to put everything back the way it was.’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘I trust you’ll be as considerate as the officer who called yesterday.’

      ‘A police officer came here yesterday?’ she said, surprised.

      ‘Yes, a nice lad. He even made me a cup of coffee.’

      Besides the kitchen and sitting room, Yáñez’s bungalow boasted three bedrooms and a largish bathroom. Amaia opened the cupboards, checking the shelves, which were crowded with shaving things, toilet rolls and a few bottles of medicine. The double bed in the main bedroom looked as if it hadn’t been slept in recently. Draped over it was a floral bedspread that matched the curtains, bleached by years of sunlight. Judging by the vases of garish plastic flowers and the crocheted doilies adorning the chest of drawers and bedside tables, the room had been lovingly decorated in the seventies by Señora Yáñez, and preserved intact by her husband. It was like looking at a display in an ethnographic museum.

      The second bedroom was empty, save for an old sewing machine standing next to a wicker basket beneath the window. She remembered it from the inventory in the report. Even so, she removed the cover