The Legacy of the Bones. Dolores Redondo

cold, but no sound emerged. She sat up in bed, concentrating as hard as she could, trying to understand what the woman was saying, but she was far away and the deafening wind carried off the muted sounds emerging from her lips, intoning over and over words that Amaia couldn’t hear. She woke up in a daze, infected by the woman’s anguish, and her own increasing sense of despair. This dream, this phantom-like apparition, had shattered her state of grace, the freedom from fear she had enjoyed since conceiving her daughter, a time of peace when all the nightmares, the gauekos, the ghosts had been exiled to another world.

      Some years earlier, in New Orleans, sitting one evening with a cold beer in a bar on St Louis Street, a jovial agent from the FBI had asked her:

      ‘So, tell me, Inspector Salazar, do murder victims appear at the foot of your bed during the night?’

      Amaia’s eyes had gaped in astonishment.

      ‘Don’t try to fool me, Salazar; I can tell a police officer who sees ghosts from one who doesn’t.’

      Amaia stared at him in silence, trying to decide whether he was joking or not, but the agent went on talking, an inscrutable smile playing on his lips.

      ‘I know, because they’ve been doing the same to me for years.’

      Amaia smiled, but Special Agent Aloisius Dupree looked her straight in the eye and she knew he was serious.

      ‘You mean …’

      ‘I mean, Inspector, waking up in the middle of the night and seeing the victim of the crime you are investigating standing beside your bed.’ Dupree’s smile had vanished.

      She gazed at him uneasily.

      ‘Don’t let me down, Salazar. Are you going to tell me you don’t see ghosts? I’d be disappointed.’

      She was alarmed, but not enough to run the risk of looking like a fool.

      ‘Agent Dupree, ghosts don’t exist,’ she said, raising her glass in a silent toast.

      ‘Of course they don’t, Inspector, but if I’m not mistaken – and I’m not – more than once you’ve awoken in the middle of the night having sensed the presence of one of those lost victims at the foot of your bed. Am I mistaken?’

      Amaia took a sip of beer, determined not to tell him anything, but inviting him to go on.

      ‘You shouldn’t feel ashamed, Inspector … Would you prefer me to say that you “dream” about your victims?’

      Amaia sighed. ‘I’m afraid that sounds just as disturbing, dubious and deranged.’

      ‘Aye, there’s the rub, Inspector: labelling it as deranged.’

      ‘Explain that to the FBI shrink or his equivalent in the Navarre police,’ she retorted.

      ‘Oh, come on, Salazar! Neither of us would be foolish enough to expose ourselves to the scrutiny of a shrink when we both know this is something he or she would be incapable of understanding. Most people would think that a cop who has nightmares about a case is at the very least stressed out or, at worst, if you push me, emotionally over-involved.’

      He paused, draining the dregs of his glass then raised his arm to order another two beers. Amaia was about to protest, but the stifling New Orleans heat, the soft tones of a piano whose keys someone was stroking at the far end of the room, and an old timepiece stopped at ten o’clock which took pride of place above the bar, made her change her mind. Dupree waited until the barman had set down two fresh glasses in front of them.

      ‘The first few times it scares the pants off you, to the point where you think you’re starting to go crazy. But that’s not true, Salazar. On the contrary, a good homicide detective doesn’t possess a simple mind, or simple thought processes. We spend hours trying to figure out how a murderer’s mind works, how he thinks, what he wants, how he feels. Next, we go to the morgue, where we view his work, hoping the body will tell us why, because once we know the killer’s motive, we have a chance of catching him. But in the majority of cases the body isn’t enough, because a dead body is just a broken shell. For too long perhaps, criminal investigations have been more focused on understanding the mind of the criminal than that of the victim. For years, murder victims have been seen as little more than the end products of a sinister process, but at last victimology is coming into its own, showing that the choice of victim is never random, even when it’s made to appear so, that too can provide clues. In dreaming about victims, we are accessing images projected by our subconscious, but that doesn’t make them any less significant. It’s simply another form of thought-processing. For a while those apparitions of victims by my bed tormented me. I used to wake up drenched in sweat, terrified and anxious. I’d feel that way for hours, while I tried to figure out to what extent I was losing my mind. I was a rookie agent back then, partnered with a veteran. Once, during a long, tedious stakeout, I woke up suddenly in the middle of one of those nightmares. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” my partner said. I froze. “Maybe I did,” I replied. “So, you see ghosts too?” he said. “Well, next time you should pay more attention to what they say instead of hollering and trying to resist.” That was good advice. Over the years, I’ve learned that when I dream about a victim, part of my brain is projecting information which is already there, but which I haven’t been able to see.’

      Amaia nodded slowly. ‘So, are they ghosts or projections inside the investigator’s mind?’

      ‘Projections, of course. Although …’

      ‘Although what?’

      Agent Dupree didn’t reply. He raised his glass and drank.

      She roused James, trying not to alarm him. He sat up in bed with a start, rubbing his eyes.

      ‘Is it time to go to the hospital?’

      Amaia bobbed her head, her face pallid as she gave a weak smile.

      James pulled on the pair of jeans and jumper that he had laid out in readiness on the end of the bed.

      ‘Call my aunt, will you? I promised I’d let her know.’

      ‘Are my parents home yet?’

      ‘Yes, but please don’t tell them, James. It’s two in the morning. I’m not going to give birth straight away. Besides, they probably won’t be allowed in. I don’t want them to have to sit for hours in the waiting room.’

      ‘So, it’s OK to tell your auntie, but not my parents?’

      ‘James, you know perfectly well that Aunt Engrasi won’t come here, she hasn’t left the valley in years. I promised I’d tell her when the time came, that’s all.’

      Dr Villa was about fifty, with prematurely grey hair that she wore in a bob, which fell across her face whenever she leant forward. Recognising Amaia, she approached the side of her bed.

      ‘Well, Amaia, we have some good news and some not-so-good news.’

      Amaia waited for her to continue, reaching out for James, who clasped her hand between his.

      ‘The good news is that you’re now in labour, the baby is fine, the umbilical cord is not wrapped round her, her heartbeat is nice and strong even during the contractions. The not-so-good news is that, despite the length of time you’ve been having contractions, your labour isn’t very advanced. There’s some dilation, but the baby isn’t properly positioned in the birth canal. What most concerns me though is that you look tired. Have you been sleeping well?’

      ‘No, not too well these past few days.’

      This was an understatement. Since the nightmares had returned, Amaia had been sleeping on and off for a few minutes before drifting into a semiconscious state from which she would awake exhausted and irritable.

      ‘We’re going to keep you in, Amaia, but I don’t want you to lie down. I need you to walk – it will help the baby’s head engage. When you feel a contraction coming, try to squat; that will ease your discomfort and help you dilate.’