The Legacy of the Bones. Dolores Redondo

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      Amaia raised her eyes in astonishment, gazing at Padua searchingly. The lieutenant grinned, pleased with himself, as he leant back in his chair.

      ‘I can see this has piqued your interest, Inspector. Tarttalo, spelled the same way as in the note Medina left for you,’ he said. He dropped a plastic folder on to the table. Inside was an envelope addressed to Inspector Salazar.

      Amaia remained silent, considering everything Lieutenant Padua had told her during the past hour. Despite her best efforts, she could find no logical, satisfactory explanation as to how two ordinary, bungling, disorganised killers could have performed identical mutilations on their victims without leaving any clues as to how they did it, when the rest of the crime scene was littered with evidence; or why they had used the exact same word to sign their crime, a word that was anything but commonplace.

      ‘Well, Lieutenant, I see where you’re going with this. What I don’t understand is why you’re telling me about it. After all, the Johana Márquez affair is the Guardia Civil’s responsibility, as are prisoner transports. The case, if there is one, is yours,’ she said, sliding the photographs back towards Padua.

      He picked them up, gazed at them in silence, then heaved a loud sigh.

      ‘The problem, Inspector Salazar, is that there isn’t going to be a case. I looked into this on my own, based on what Rodríguez told me. The Logroño case was handled by the police there and is officially closed, as is that of Johana Márquez, now that her confessed killer is dead. I presented everything I told you to my superiors, but they say there’s insufficient cause to open an investigation.’

      Head in hand, Amaia listened intently, chewing on her bottom lip.

      ‘What do you want me to do, Padua?’

      ‘What I want, Inspector, is to be sure that the two crimes aren’t related, but my hands are tied … In any event, at the end of the day, you’re already involved. And this,’ he added, sliding the envelope back to her, ‘is yours.’

      Amaia ran her finger over the shiny plastic folder and along the edge of the envelope that bore her name in small, neat handwriting.

      ‘Have you visited Medina’s cell at the prison?’

      ‘How did you guess!’ Padua laughed and shook his head. ‘I went there this morning before I called you.’

      Leaning to one side, he took a file out of his bag. ‘Page eight,’ he said, placing it on the table.

      Amaia instantly recognised the file: an autopsy report. She had seen hundreds of them, the name and number printed on the cover.

      ‘Medina’s autopsy report, but we already know how he died.’

      ‘Page eight,’ Padua insisted.

      While Amaia started to read, the lieutenant reeled off the passage as if he knew it by heart.

      ‘The index finger on Jasón Medina’s right hand showed significant damage. The nail was missing, and the skin flayed so that the flesh was showing. The prison governor let me go through Medina’s personal effects. His wife doesn’t want them, and no one else has claimed them, so they’re still at the prison. As far as I can see, Medina was quite a simple fellow. No books, no photographs, no real possessions, just a few back issues of a glossy magazine and a sports journal. His personal hygiene was basic; he didn’t even own a toothbrush. I asked to see his cell, which at first glance appeared unremarkable. Other inmates have occupied it over the past four months. But I had a hunch, so I sprayed the walls with Luminol and the place lit up like a Christmas tree. Inspector, the night before his trial Jasón Medina scraped his finger practically down to the bone to write in blood on his cell wall the same word as the prisoner in Logroño. And afterwards, like his predecessor, he took his own life, the only difference being that Medina did so outside the prison, because he had to give you this,’ he said, pointing to the envelope.

      Amaia picked it up without looking at it and slipped it into her pocket before leaving the bar. As she made her way home, she could feel its ominous presence, pressed against her side like a warm poultice. She took out her mobile phone and punched in Deputy Inspector Etxaide’s number.

      ‘Hello, chief.’

      ‘Good evening, Jonan, forgive me for calling you at home …’

      ‘How can I help?’

      ‘I want you to find out everything you can about the mythological creature tarttalo, or any references to something spelled t-a-r-t-t-a-l-o.’

      ‘No problem, I’ll have it for you tomorrow. Was there anything else?’

      ‘No, that’s all. Thanks a lot, Jonan.’

      ‘My pleasure, chief. See you tomorrow.’

      Hanging up, she realised how late she was; Ibai had been due his feed nearly three-quarters of an hour earlier. Anxious to get home, she broke into a run, dodging the few pedestrians who had braved the chilly Pamplona weather. As she ran, she couldn’t help thinking about how punctual Ibai was with his feeds, how he woke up demanding to be fed every four hours, practically to the minute. She glimpsed her house halfway along the street. Still running, she fumbled in the pocket of her quilted jacket for her key, and, as though performing a perfect bullfighter’s lunge, inserted it in the lock and opened the door. The baby’s hoarse cries reached her like a wave of despair from the first floor. She bounded up the stairs without taking off her coat, her mind filling with absurd images of Ibai left to cry in his cot while James lay asleep, or of James staring at the baby, incapable of consoling him.

      But James wasn’t asleep. Rushing into the kitchen, Amaia found him rocking Ibai on his shoulder, singing in an effort to calm him.

      ‘For heaven’s sake, James, haven’t you given him the bottle?’ she asked, reflecting on her own ambiguous feelings about the matter.

      ‘Hi, Amaia, I did try,’ he said, gesturing towards a feeding bottle full of milk languishing on the table, ‘but he doesn’t want to know,’ he added, smiling sheepishly.

      ‘Are you sure you mixed it properly?’ she said, looking askance at him and shaking the bottle.

      ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ James replied good-naturedly, still rocking the baby. ‘Fifty millilitres of water to two level scoops of formula.’

      Amaia slipped off her coat and tossed it on to a chair.

      ‘Give him to me,’ she said.

      ‘Relax, Amaia,’ said James, trying to calm her. ‘Ibai is fine, he’s just a bit grouchy, that’s all. I’ve been holding him all this time, he hasn’t been crying long.’

      She all but snatched the baby from James, walked into the sitting room and sank into an armchair as his wails crescendoed.

      ‘How long is not long?’ she demanded, crossly. ‘Half an hour, an hour? If you’d fed him on time, he would never have got into this state.’

      James’s smile faded.

      ‘Less than ten minutes, Amaia. When you didn’t come home, I prepared the bottle in time for his feed. But he didn’t want it, СКАЧАТЬ