LITMIR.BIZ

       9

      The leaden skies that had inspired Pamplona’s inhabitants to rename it Mordor, gave way in Baztán to a hazier, more luminous atmosphere – a shimmering mist that dazzled the eye, shrouding the landscape in an eerie light and blurring the horizon. The police station at Elizondo seemed strangely calm compared to yesterday, and getting out of the car, Amaia noticed that this silence had descended like a blanket over the entire valley, so that even from up there she could hear the murmur of the River Txokoto, barely visible behind the old stone edifices. She turned her gaze back to the office: half a dozen photographs of the cot, the white bear, the corpse in the rucksack, the empty coffin from which Valentín Esparza had snatched his daughter’s body, and finally the pathologist’s report, open on top of her desk. San Martín had confirmed asphyxia as the cause of death. The shape and size of the bear’s nose perfectly matched the pressure mark on the baby’s forehead, and the white fibres found in the folds of her mouth came from the toy. The saliva traces on her face and on the toy belonged to the child and to Valentín Esparza; the foul odour coming from the toy was related to a third saliva trace, the source of which hadn’t yet been verified.

      ‘This proves nothing,’ remarked Montes. ‘The father could have kissed the baby goodbye when he left her at his mother-in-law’s house.’

      ‘Except that when San Martín confirmed there were saliva traces, I asked the grandmother if she’d bathed the girl before putting her to bed, and she said she had. So, any traces of saliva from the parents would have been washed away,’ explained Amaia.

      ‘A lawyer could argue that at some point he kissed the toy with which the baby was suffocated, thus transferring his saliva to her skin,’ said Iriarte.

      Zabalza arched an eyebrow sceptically.

      ‘That’s perfectly feasible,’ protested Iriarte, looking to Amaia for support. ‘When my kids were small, they often asked me to kiss their toys.’

      ‘This girl was only four months old – I doubt she asked her father to kiss the bear. Besides, Esparza isn’t the type to do that kind of thing. And the grandmother claims he stayed in the kitchen that day, drinking a beer, while his wife went up to see to the baby,’ said Amaia, picking out one of the photographs to examine it more closely.

      ‘I have something,’ said Zabalza. ‘I did a bit of work on the recordings from Esparza’s cell. I couldn’t make out the words, even with the volume on full. But since the image is quite clear, it occurred to me to send it to a friend who works with the deaf and can lip-read. He was absolutely certain that Esparza was saying: “I gave her up her to Inguma, like all the other sacrifices.” I ran a check on Inguma and couldn’t find anyone with that name or nickname.’

      ‘Inguma? Are you sure?’ Amaia asked, surprised.

      ‘That’s what my friend said: “Inguma”.’

      ‘How strange, because the baby’s great-grandmother insisted that Inguma was responsible for the girl’s death. According to her, Inguma is a demon, a creature that enters people’s bedrooms at night, sits on their chests while they’re asleep, and robs them of their breath,’ she said, looking to Jonan for confirmation, who held a combined degree in anthropology and archaeology.

      ‘That’s right.’ Deputy Inspector Etxaide took over. ‘Inguma is one of the oldest, most sinister creatures in traditional folklore, an evil genie that enters victims’ houses at night and suffocates them. Inguma is thought to be responsible for terrible nightmares and what we now call sleep apnoea, where the sleeper stops breathing for no apparent reason. In extreme cases, death can occur. The majority of sufferers are people who smoke or are overweight. Interestingly, sleeping with the windows open was thought to be dangerous, because Inguma could enter more easily; people suffering from respiratory problems kept their windows closed at night, blocking every possible opening, as it was believed the genie could slip through the tiniest crack. Naturally, cot deaths were also blamed on Inguma, and before putting their children to bed people would recite a magic formula to ward off the demon. As when addressing witches, it was essential to begin by stating that you believed in them, but didn’t fear them. It went something like this:

       Inguma, I do not fear you.

       I call upon God and the Virgin Mary to protect me.

       Until you have counted every star in the sky,

       Every blade of grass upon the earth,

       Every grain of sand upon the beach,

       You will not come to me.

      ‘It’s a wonderful spell, commanding the demon to perform a task that will take an eternity. Very similar to the eguzkilore used against witches, who must count all the thorns on a thistle before entering a house. As this takes all night, by the time dawn comes they have to run and hide. What’s interesting about Inguma is that, although it’s one of the least-studied night demons, it has identical equivalents in other cultures.’

      ‘I’d like to see Esparza explaining to Judge Markina that his daughter was killed by a night demon,’ said Montes.

      ‘He hasn’t confessed to killing her, but he hasn’t denied it either. He insists that he gave her up,’ explained Iriarte.

      ‘“Like all the other sacrifices”,’ added Zabalza. ‘What does he mean? Do you suppose this isn’t the first time he’s done this?’

      ‘Well, he’s going to have a hard time blaming it on a demon,’ said Montes. ‘I questioned some of his neighbours this morning and was lucky enough to find a woman who’d been watching television late that night. She “happened” to look out of her window, and saw the couple arrive home after their evening out. Twenty minutes later, she was surprised to hear the car leave again. She said she was worried the baby might be unwell, so she listened out. Twenty minutes later, she heard the car return. This time, she peeped through the spyhole in her front door, just to make sure the baby was all right, and saw Esparza go into the house alone.’

      Iriarte shrugged.

      ‘Then we’ve got him.’

      Amaia agreed.

      ‘Yes, everything points to the husband, but three things need clearing up: the smell and saliva traces on the bear; Esparza’s obsession with his daughter’s body not being cremated; and what he meant by “Like all the other sacrifices.” Incidentally,’ she said, holding up the photograph she had been examining, ‘is it a trick of the camera, or is there something in the coffin?’

      ‘Yes,’ admitted Iriarte. ‘Initially, we mistook it for quilting, but the funeral director alerted us. It seems Esparza placed three bags of sugar wrapped in a white towel in the coffin. Clearly, so that the bearers wouldn’t notice it

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