Dolores Redondo - Offering to the Storm

HarperCollins Publishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollins Publishers 2017

Copyright © Dolores Redondo 2014

Translation copyright © Nick Caistor and Lorenza García 2017

Dolores Redondo asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Originally published in 2014 by Ediciones Destino,

Spain, as Ofrenda a la tormenta

Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018

Cover photographs © Wojciech Zwolinski/Arcangel Images (statue), Shutterstock.com(other images)

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This is entirely a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2017 ISBN: 9780008165550

Source ISBN: 9780008165543

Version: 2018-04-20

For Eduardo, as with everything I do.

For my aunt Angela and all the proud women in my family, who have always done what had to be done.

And above all, for Ainara.

I cannot bring you justice, but at least I shall remember your name.

‘It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down, and try if we cannot remember a prayer.’

‘Those words mean nothing to me now.’

The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde

‘All things that have a name exist.’

A popular Baztan belief, recorded by José Miguel de Barandiarán in Brujería y brujas

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Footnotes

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Dolores Redondo

About the Publisher

The lamp on the bedside table cast a warm, pink glow over the room, taking on different tones as it shone through the fairy patterns on its glass shade. From the shelf, a collection of stuffed toys gazed with beady eyes at the intruder silently gazing at the sleeping child. The intruder could hear the murmur of the television in the adjacent room, and the heavy breathing of the woman asleep on the sofa, lit by the screen’s cold light. The intruder’s eyes slid over the room, captivated by the moment, drinking in every detail, as though wanting to preserve that instant, transform it into a memento to be cherished forever. Eager but calm, the figure memorised the gentle pattern of the wallpaper, the framed photographs, the travel bag containing the little girl’s nappies and clothes, and then focused on the cot. A feeling akin to intoxication overcame the intruder, accompanied by nausea in the pit of the stomach. The baby was lying on her back, dressed in a pair of flannel pyjamas, a flowered bedspread drawn up to her waist. The intruder pulled the bedspread back, wanting to see all of her. The baby sighed in her sleep; a tiny thread of saliva trickled from her pink lips, leaving a damp patch on her cheek. The chubby hands, splayed out either side of her head, quivered a few times then relaxed once again. Reacting to the sight, the intruder sighed, overcome by a fleeting wave of tenderness. Picking up the soft toy sitting at the foot of the cot like a silent guardian, the intruder was vaguely aware of the care someone had taken to place it there. It was a polar bear, with small black eyes and a bulging stomach. An incongruous red ribbon fastened about its neck hung down to its hind legs. The intruder stroked the polar bear’s head, enjoying its softness, then, nose pressed into the furry belly, inhaled the sweet aroma of the expensive new toy.

Pulse racing, skin beading with sweat, the intruder began to perspire. Suddenly infuriated, the intruder held the toy at arm’s length, then thrust it down over the baby’s nose and mouth. After that, it was simply a matter of pressing it.

The tiny hands flailed in the air, one of her little fingers brushing the intruder’s wrist. An instant later, she fell into what seemed like a deep, restorative sleep. Her muscles relaxed, and her starfish hands lay on the sheets once more.

The intruder pulled the toy away and looked at the little girl’s face. There was no sign that she had suffered, apart from a red mark between the eyebrows, caused by the polar bear’s nose. The light in her face was snuffed out, and the sensation of gazing upon an empty receptacle intensified as the intruder raised the toy, and inhaled once again the little girl’s aroma, now enriched by her escaping soul. The scent was so powerful and sweet that the intruder’s eyes filled with tears. With a sigh of gratitude, the killer straightened the polar bear’s ribbon before replacing it at the foot of the cot.

Seized by a sense of urgency, as though suddenly aware of lingering too long, the intruder fled, turning only once to look back. The glow from the lamp seemed to gleam in the eyes of the other eleven furry animals as they peered down in horror from the shelf.

Amaia had been watching the house for twenty minutes from her car. With the engine switched off and the windows closed against the steady drizzle, condensation had formed on the windows, blurring the contours of the building with the dark shutters.

Presently, a small car pulled up outside the front door. A young man stepped out, opened his umbrella, and leaned over the dashboard to pick up a notebook, which he glanced at before tossing it back in the car. Then he went to the boot, retrieved a flat package and walked up to the house.

Amaia drew level with him just as he rang the doorbell.

‘Excuse me, who are you?’

‘Social services, we deliver this gentleman’s meals every day,’ he replied, indicating the plastic tray in his hand. ‘He’s housebound, and has no one else to take care of him. Are you a relative?’ he enquired hopefully.