Dolores Redondo - The Invisible Guardian

‘We’d stay at her house.’

‘Great.’

‘I’ll be quite busy and I won’t have much free time, though.’

‘I’ll play Mus or Poker with your aunt and her friends.’

‘They’ll clean you out.’

‘I’m very rich.’

They both laughed at this and Amaia carried on talking about what they could do in Elizondo until she realised that James was asleep. She kissed him gently on the head and covered his shoulders with the duvet. When she got up to use the toilet she noticed bloody marks on the paper as she wiped herself. She looked at herself in the mirror as the tears welled up in her eyes. With her long hair falling over her shoulders she looked younger and more vulnerable, like the little girl she had once been.

‘Not this time, either, darling, not this time either,’ she whispered, knowing that there would be no consolation. She took a painkiller and, shivering, got back into bed.

The cemetery was full of neighbours who had taken time off work and even closed their shops in order to attend the burial. The rumour that she might not be the first girl to die at the hands of this criminal was beginning to spread. During the funeral, which had taken place barely two hours earlier in the parish Church of Santiago, the priest had implied in his sermon that evil appeared to be stalking the valley and during the prayer for the dead, around the open grave in the ground, the atmosphere was tense and ominous, as if an inescapable curse was hovering over the heads of those present. The silence was broken only by Ainhoa’s brother who, supported by his cousins, doubled over with a harsh, convulsive groan that came from deep inside him and reduced him to heartrending sobs. His parents, standing nearby, seemed not to hear him. Holding one another for support, they wept silently without taking their eyes off the coffin that contained their daughter’s body. Jonan recorded the entire service from his position leaning on top of an old vault. Standing behind the parents, Montes observed the group just opposite them, closest to the grave. Deputy Inspector Zabalza had stationed himself near the gate in a camouflaged car and was taking photos of all the people who entered the cemetery, including those heading towards different graves and those who didn’t actually go in but stayed outside, talking in huddles or standing by the railings.

Amaia saw her Aunt Engrasi, who was holding Ros’s arm, and wondered where her layabout of a brother-in-law could be; almost certainly still in bed. Freddy had never made an effort in his life; his father had died when he was only five and he had grown up anaesthetised by the fuss made of him by a hysterical mother and a multitude of aging aunts who had spoiled him rotten. He hadn’t even turned up for dinner last Christmas Eve. Ros hadn’t eaten a bite while she watched the door with an ashen face and dialled Freddy’s number time and again, only to be told it was unavailable. Although they had all tried to pretend it didn’t matter, Flora had been unable to resist the opportunity to say exactly what she thought of that loser and they had ended up arguing. Ros had left halfway through dinner and Flora and a resigned Víctor had followed suit as soon as dessert was over. Since then things between them had been even worse than normal. Amaia waited until everyone had offered the parents their condolences before approaching the grave, which the cemetery workers had just closed with a grey marble cover which did not yet feature Ainhoa’s name.

‘Amaia.’

She saw Víctor coming over, making his way through the parishioners who were flooding out of the cemetery after Ainhoa’s parents. She had known Víctor since she was a young girl, when he had first started going out with Flora. Although it was now two years since they had separated, to Amaia, Víctor was still her brother-in-law.

‘Hello Amaia, how are you?’

‘Fine, given the circumstances.’

‘Oh, of course,’ he said, casting a troubled glance at the tomb. ‘Even so, I’m very happy to see you.’

‘Likewise. Did you come by yourself?’

‘No, with your sister.’

‘I didn’t see you.’

‘We saw you …’

‘Where is Flora?’

‘You know her … she’s already gone, but don’t take it the wrong way.’

Aunt Engrasi and Ros were coming up the gravel path; Víctor exchanged a friendly greeting with them and left the cemetery, turning to wave when he reached the gate.

‘I don’t know how he puts up with her,’ remarked Ros.

‘He doesn’t anymore, had you forgotten that they’ve separated?’ said Amaia.

‘What do you mean he doesn’t anymore? She’s like a dog in the manger. She neither eats nor lets others eat.’

‘That does describe Flora rather well,’ agreed Aunt Engrasi.

‘I’ve got to go and see her, I’ll let you know how it goes later.’

Founded in 1865, Mantecadas Salazar was one of the oldest confectionery and patisserie companies in Navarra. Six generations of Salazars had run it, although it had been Flora, taking over from their parents, who had known how to make the necessary decisions to keep such a company going in the current market. The original sign engraved on the marble façade had been retained, but the wide wooden shutters had been replaced by huge frosted windows that prevented people seeing in. Making her way round the building, Amaia arrived at the door to the warehouse, which was always open when there was work underway. She gave it a rap with her knuckles. As she went in she saw a group of workers chatting while they made up boxes of pastries. She recognised some of them, greeted them, and made her way to Flora’s office, breathing in the sweet smell of sugared flour and melted butter that had been a part of her for so many years, as integral to her sense of identity as her DNA. Her parents had been the forerunners of the process of change, but Flora had steered it to completion with a steady hand. Amaia saw that she had replaced all the ovens except the wood-fired one and that the old marble counters on which her father had kneaded dough were now made of stainless steel. Some of the dispensers had been upgraded and the different areas were separated by sparklingly clean windows; if it hadn’t been for the powerful aroma of syrup it would have reminded her more of an operating theatre than a pastry workshop. In contrast, Flora’s office was a big surprise. The oak desk that dominated one corner was the only piece of furniture that looked at all businesslike. A large rustic kitchen with a fireplace and a wooden worktop acted as the reception; a floral sofa and a modern espresso machine completed the ensemble, which was really very welcoming.

Flora was making coffee and arranging the cups and saucers as if she was receiving guests.

‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ she said without turning round when she heard the door.

‘This must be the only place you wait, you almost ran out of the cemetery.’

‘That’s because I, Amaia, don’t have time to waste, I have to work.’

‘So do the rest of us, Flora.’

‘No, not like the rest of you, sister dear, some more than others. I’m sure that Ros, or rather Rosaura, as she now wants to be called, has time to spare.’

‘I don’t know what makes you say that,’ said Amaia, somewhere between surprised and upset by her older sister’s dismissive tone.

‘Well, I say it because our darling sister’s got problems with that loser Freddy again. She’s been spending hours on the phone recently trying to find out where he is, that is when she’s not wandering around with puffy red eyes from crying over that shit. I tried to tell her, but she just wouldn’t listen … Until one day, two weeks ago, she stopped coming to work under the pretext of being ill and I can tell you exactly what was wrong with her … she was in a temper with a capital“t” thanks to that PlayStation champion. He’s no good for anything except spending the money Ros earns, playing his stupid computer games and getting off his head on dope. To get back to the point, a week ago Queen Rosaura deigned to turn up here and hand in her resignation. What do you think of that?! She says she can no longer work with me and she wants her final pay slip.’