The Legacy of the Bones - Dolores Redondo

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decidedly unappealing. Since her in-laws had arrived a fortnight earlier, Amaia’s idea of home had been seriously challenged. She gazed towards the enticing windows of the cafés across from the courthouse and at the other end of Calle San Roque, where she could see the trees in Media Luna Park. Working out that it was roughly one and a half kilometres to her house, she set off on foot. She could always hail a taxi if she felt tired.

      Leaving behind the roar of traffic as she entered the park gave her an instant sense of relief. The fresh scent of wet grass replaced the exhaust fumes, and Amaia instinctively slackened her pace as she crossed one of the stone paths that cut through the perfect greenness. She took deep breaths, exhaling with deliberate slowness. What a morning, she thought; Jasón Medina perfectly fitted the profile of the criminal who commits suicide in jail. Accused of raping and killing his wife’s daughter, he had been put in solitary confinement pending his trial; no doubt he’d been terrified at the prospect of having to mix with other prisoners after being sentenced. She remembered him from the interrogations nine months earlier, when they were investigating the basajaun case: a snivelling coward, weeping and wailing as he confessed his atrocities.

      The two cases weren’t connected, but Lieutenant Padua of the Guardia Civil had invited her to sit in, because of Medina’s clumsy attempts to imitate the modus operandi of the serial killer she was chasing, based on what he had read in the newspapers. That was nine months ago, just when she became pregnant. Since then, a lot of things had changed.

      ‘Haven’t they, little one?’ she whispered, stroking her belly.

      A violent contraction caused her to pull up short. Leaning on her umbrella for support, she doubled over, enduring the terrible spasm in her lower abdomen, which spread in a ripple down her inner thighs, wrenching a cry from her, more of surprise at the intensity than of pain. The sensation subsided as quickly as it had arisen.

      So that’s how it felt. Countless times she had wondered what it would feel like to go into labour, whether she would recognise the signs, or be one of those women who arrived at the hospital with the baby already crowning, or who gave birth in the taxi.

      ‘Oh, my little one!’ Amaia spoke to her sweetly. ‘You still have another week. Are you sure you want to come out now?’

      The pain had vanished, as if it had never happened. She felt an immense joy, accompanied by a twinge of anxiety at the imminence of her baby’s arrival. She smiled, glancing about as if she wished she could share her pleasure. But the moist, cool park was deserted and its emerald green colours, still more radiant and beautiful in the dazzling light seeping through the clouds above Pamplona, reminded her of the sense of discovery she always felt in Baztán, which in the city seemed like an unexpected gift. She continued on her way, transported now to that magical forest and the amber eyes of the lord of that domain. Only nine months previously she had been investigating a case there, in the place where she was born, the place she had always wanted to flee, the place where she had gone to hunt down a killer, and where she conceived her baby girl.

      The knowledge that her daughter was growing inside her had brought the soothing calm and serenity to her life that she had always dreamt of. At that time it had been the only thing that helped her cope with the terrible events she had lived through, which a few months earlier would have been the death of her. Returning to Elizondo, dredging up her past, and, most of all, Víctor’s death, had turned her world and that of her entire family upside down. Aunt Engrasi was the only one unaffected, reading her tarot cards, playing poker with her women friends every afternoon, smiling like someone who has seen everything before. Overnight, Flora had moved to Zarautz, on the pretext of recording her daily programme on baking for national television, and, who would have believed it, had handed over the running of Mantecadas Salazar to Ros. Much to Flora’s astonishment – and confirming Amaia’s intuitions – Ros had turned out to be a first-class manager, if a little overwhelmed to begin with. Amaia had offered to help her out and for the past few months had been spending almost every weekend in Elizondo, even after she realised that Ros no longer needed her support. And yet she continued to go there, to eat with them, to sleep at her aunt’s house, feeling at home. From the moment her baby girl started to grow inside her, she’d begun to rediscover a feeling of home, of roots, of belonging, that for years she thought she had lost for ever.

      As she came out into Calle Mayor it began to drizzle again. She opened her umbrella, picking her way between the shoppers and a few pedestrians who had no protection and were scurrying along beneath the eaves of the buildings and shop awnings. She paused in front of the colourful window of a store selling children’s clothes and contemplated the little pink smocks embroidered with tiny flowers. Clarice was probably right, she ought to buy something like that for her baby. She sighed, all of a sudden irritated, as she thought of the room Clarice had decorated for her child. James’s parents had come over from the States for the birth and after only ten days in Pamplona his mother had more than fulfilled Amaia’s worst expectations of what a meddlesome mother-in-law could be like. From the very first day, she voiced her bewilderment about there being no nursery despite all the spare rooms they had.

      Amaia had salvaged an antique hardwood cot from her Aunt Engrasi’s sitting room, where for years it had been used as a log basket. James had sanded it down to the grain before applying a fresh coat of varnish, while Engrasi’s friends had made an exquisite valance and a white bedcover that accentuated the craftsmanship and character of the cot. There was plenty of space in their large bedroom; besides, despite what the experts said, Amaia wasn’t convinced about the merits of her baby having a separate room; for the first few months, while she was breastfeeding, having the baby nearby would make it easier to feed her during the night, and knowing that she could hear her if she cried or had a problem would reassure her …

      Clarice had raised the roof. ‘The baby must have her own room, with all her things around her. Believe you me, both mother and baby will sleep better. If you have her next to you, you’ll be listening for her every breath and movement; she needs her space and you need yours. Anyway, it’s not healthy for a baby to share its parents’ bedroom, children become used to it and won’t be taken to their own room.’

      Amaia had also read the advice of a host of celebrated paediatricians determined to indoctrinate an entire new generation of children into the ways of suffering: don’t pick them up too often, let them sleep alone from birth, don’t comfort them when they have a tantrum because they need to learn to be independent, to cope with their fears and failures. Such stupidity made Amaia’s stomach churn. It occurred to her that if any of these distinguished doctors had been obliged since birth to ‘cope’ with fear the way she had, they would have an entirely different view of the world. If her daughter wanted to sleep in their bedroom until she was three years old, that was fine by her: she would comfort her, listen to her, take seriously and allay her childish fears, because as she herself knew only too well, they could loom large in a child’s mind. But evidently Clarice had her own ideas about how things should be done, which she didn’t hesitate to share with everybody else.

      Three days earlier, Amaia had arrived home to discover that her mother-in-law had given them a surprise gift: a magnificent nursery complete with wardrobes, a changer, chest of drawers, rugs, and lamps. A superabundance of pink fleecy clouds and little lambs, all wreathed in ribbons and lace. Amaia had been alarmed enough when James had opened the door, given her a kiss and whispered apologetically: ‘She means well.’ But when she was confronted by this profusion of pinkness, her smile froze as she realised she was being made to feel like a stranger in her own home. Clarice, on the other hand, was thrilled, gliding amidst the furniture like a TV presenter, while Amaia’s father-in-law, impassive as always when faced with his wife’s enthusiasm, carried on calmly reading the newspaper in the sitting room. Amaia found it difficult to reconcile the image of Thomas at the helm of a financial empire with the way he behaved towards his wife, with a mixture of submissiveness and apathy that never ceased to amaze her. If only because she knew how uncomfortable James felt, Amaia did her best to keep her composure while his mother extolled the marvels of the nursery she had bought for them.

      ‘Look at this lovely wardrobe, all her clothes will fit in there, and there is room in the changer for nappies as well as everything else. Aren’t the rugs cute? And over here,’ she said, grinning

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