'Aye. They actually developed a strange deformity. Like a kind of human subspecies.'
'Sorry?'
'The men of Foula. And Saint Kilda too.' Hamish shrugged, his rust-red hair riffling in the wind. 'Over the centuries they developed very big toes, because they used them for climbing the cliffs. I suppose that was evolution. The men who climbed best happened to be the ones with big toes, so they got wives and had well-fed children, and passed on their big toes.'
'Are you serious?'
'Quite serious.' Hamish smiled serenely.
But Simon was not feeling serene; the talk of the weird toes of the Foulans had brusquely reminded him. What he saw. The old woman's bare feet. He had to mention it.
'Guys. Can we, ah, get out of this wind?'
'Of course.'
The two policemen, and the journalist, walked down to a hollow, then lay back on the dewy turf. Simon said: 'You mentioned toes, Mister Leask.'
'Aye.'
'Well. It's funny butJulie Charpentier's toesDid either of you notice?'
Leask looked blank. 'I'm sorry?'
'You didn't see anything unusual about the victim? Her feet?'
'What?'
Simon wondered if he was making an idiot of himself.
'The toes of her right foot were deformed. Slightly.'
Sanderson was frowning.
'Go on, Simon.'
'I think the word is syndactyly. My wife is a doctor.'
'And syn'
'Yes. Syndactyly. Webbed toes. Two of the old woman's toes were conjoined, at least partially. It's rather rare, but not unknown'
Sanderson shrugged. 'So?'
Simon knew it was a big guess. But he felt sure he was onto something.
'Do you remember the woman in Primrose Hill? What she was wearing?'
The change in Sanderson's expression was sudden.
'You mean the gloves. The fucking gloves!'
Before Simon could say anything else, Sanderson was on his feet and speaking on his mobile; the DCI took his phone a few yards down the sunlit slope, talking animatedly all the while. The wind was too boisterous for Simon to hear the conversation.
He sat in the cool yet dazzling sun, thinking of the woman's pain, her lonely screaming pain. Hamish Leask had his eyes shut.
A few minutes later, Sanderson returned, his normally ruddy face whiter; quite pale with surprise.
'I just called Pathology in London.' He turned towards Simon. 'You were right. The gloves were concealing a deformity; Pathology had already noted it.' He looked away again, staring at the distant ocean. 'He said it was digital syndactyly. The Primrose Hill victim had twowebbed fingers.'
The sea birds were calling from the cliffs below.
8
They took the Bidasoa Road through the misty green valley, chasing the tumbling river downhill, and then shaving a sudden right, up into the hills, into another Basque Navarrese village, past the obligatory stone fountain and the deserted grey fronton. David could sense the small tightness of anxiety: what did Jose Garovillo know? What was he going to say?
8
They took the Bidasoa Road through the misty green valley, chasing the tumbling river downhill, and then shaving a sudden right, up into the hills, into another Basque Navarrese village, past the obligatory stone fountain and the deserted grey fronton. David could sense the small tightness of anxiety: what did Jose Garovillo know? What was he going to say?
The village was called Etxalar.
David said the word Etxalar out loud, practising the pronunciation; Amy smiled, very gently.
'No. Don't say the x like an x, you say tchuhhhh.'
'Etchalarrrr?'
'Much better.'
They were stalled behind a cattle truck. Amy seemed distracted. She asked him, apropos of nothing, about his past life, London, America, his job. He sketched a few details.
Then she asked him about his lovelife.
He paused but then he confessed he was single. Amy asked why.
The cow in the truck stared at them, reproachfully. David answered:
'I guess I push people away, before they get too close. Perhaps because I lost my parents. Don't trust people to hang around.'
Another silence. He asked, 'And you? Are you attached?'
A silence. The cattle truck moved on, and they followed, accelerating past small orchards of pear trees. At last Amy said, 'David, there's something I should tell you. I've been lying. At least'
'What?'
'I've not been giving you all the information.'
'About what?'
The green-blue of the mountains framed her profile. Her conflicted thoughts were written on her face. David offered:
'You don't have to tell me if you don't want.'
'No,' she answered, 'you deserve an explanation. And we are going to meet Jose, Miguel's father.'
Amy turned and regarded David; there was a tension and yet an audacity in her expression.
'We were lovers. Miguel was my boyfriend. Years ago.'
'Jesus.'
'I was twenty-three. I'd just arrived in the Basque Country. I was alone. Young and stupid. I never mentioned itBecause I guess I amashamed.'
David turned the wheel as they drove around a corner; the trees and hedges shivered in the slipstream as they passed. He had to ask: 'You knew he was ETA. And yet you?'
'Slept with him?' She sighed. 'Yes, I know. Muy stupido. But I was young like I say andyoung girls go for bastards, don't they? The bad boy. That Heathcliff shit, the older man bollocks. Even the glamorous violence.' She shook her head. 'I guess it had some juvenile allure. And he was mysterious. And he's smart and good looking and a famous guy, famously strong and active.' She forced a weak smile. 'He looks a bit like you, actually. Except older and a little thinner.'
'Except I don't mutilate, torture and kill people andI don't hit women in bars.'
'Of course. Of course. I realized this myself after about two months, that he was just a nasty piece of work. And' She shrugged, awkwardly, then confessed. 'And there was something sick about him, as well. He was kinky. In bed. I dumped him after two months.'
David didn't know what to say; her honesty was disarming.
He tried another question as they sped past a farmhouse.
'Do you still have contact?'
'No. Not if I can help it. But sometimes it's inevitable. Miguel introduced me to his dad, to Jose, who is still a good friend he helped me get my job. And I really love my jobThe same way I love these mountains.' She sighed. 'But Miguel is always bloody there, lurking, he's pursued me ever sinceYou know what you did in that bar, that was very brave.'
'Did he hit you when you were together?'
'Yes. That's when it happened. He hit me once and that's when I dumped him. Bastard.'
He thought of the scar on her forehead. It didn't quite match a scene of domestic abuse. But he didn't want to pry further. The farms were turning into forests, they were slowly ascending the mountains.
'Amy. Thanks for telling me.' He looked at her. 'You didn't have to tell me any of this. In fact, you don't have to do any of this.'
'I'm in it now.'
'Kinda.'
'Not kind of,' she said. 'Definitely. And besides, I feel arapport. With your situation.'
'How come?'
'Because of my own family.' Light, spiteful rain spattered the windscreen. 'My father died when I was ten, my mother started drinking soon after. My brother and I practically had to look after ourselves. Then my brother emigrated to Australia. And yet my drunken mum and my distant brother that's all I have left, because the rest of my family died in the Holocaust all those ancestors, the cousinage. They all died. So I guess I feela bit of an orphan.' She turned to look at him. 'Not unlike you.'
Amy's yellow hair was kicking in the cool rainy breeze through the car window. Her monologue seemed to have calmed her; she seemed less alarmed.
'Take the right here. Past the chapel.'
He turned the wheel obediently.
'I wonder,' she said, 'I sometimes wonder if my Jewishness explains my attachment to the Basques, because they have such a sense of who they are, and where they belong. They've been here for so long. One people, living in one place. Whereas the Jews have wandered, we just keep wandering.' She rubbed her face, as if trying to wake herself up. 'Anyway. We are nearly there.'
David changed a gear as he took a final corner. He thought of Miguel Garovillo, the lean, menacing features, the dark and violent eyes. Amy had assured him Miguel was not going to show up at his father's house. Jose had guaranteed he would not be around.
But the way Miguel had come for Amy in the bar was just too hard to forget. Wild and violent jealousy. Something more than jealousy. A kind of lustful hatred.
Amy gestured. 'Slow down it's the little road here.'
It was a shaded and very rutted track, that seemed to lead directly into the misty mountain forests. Carefully David nudged the car through the muddy narrows; just as the wheels began to slither they turned into a clearing and Amy said: 'There.'
The house was tiny, pretty, brightly whitewashed, and trimmed with green wooden shutters. The rain had stopped and spears of sunlight lanced the evanescing fog. And standing in front of the house, proudly waving a beret, was the sprightliest old man David had ever seen. He had very long earlobes.
'Epa!' said Jose Garovillo, looking at David very closely as he climbed out of the car. 'Zer moduz? Pozten naiz zu ezagutzeaz?'
'Uh'
'Hah. Don't worry, my friend DavidMartinez!' The old man chuckled. 'Come in, come in, I am not going to make you speak Basque. I speak your language perfectly. I love the English language, I love your swearwords. Fuckmuppet! So much better than Finnish.'
He smiled and turned to Amy. And then his smiling face clouded for a moment as he regarded the fading bruise on her face.
'Aii. Amy. Aiii. I am so so so sorry. Lo siento. I hear what happened in the Bilbo.' The man shuddered with remorse. 'What can I do? My sonmy terrible son. He frightens me. But, Amy, tell me what to do and I will do it.'
Amy leaned close and reassured him with a hug.
'I'm fine. David helped me. Really, Jose.'
'But Amy. El violencia? It is so terrible!'
'Jose!' Amy's response was sharp. 'Please. I am completely OK.'
The elderly smile returned.
'Thenwe must go and eat! Always we must eat. When there is trouble the Basques must eat. Come inside, Davido. We have a feast to satisfy the jentilaks of the forest.'
There was no time to ask any further questions; as soon as they sat down they were presented with food and drink, endless food and drink.
There was no time to ask any further questions; as soon as they sat down they were presented with food and drink, endless food and drink.
Fermina, Jose's much younger wife, turned out to be a fervent cook; with dark eyes and bangled arms she served them traditional Basque food from her miniature kitchen, all of it rapturously introduced and explained by Jose. They had fiery nibbles of Espelette chillies skewered with tripotx lamb's blood sausage from Biraitou; they had a Gerezi beltza arno gorriakin a cherry soup the colour of claret served with a white blob of creme fraiche; then the 'cheeks of the hake' decorated with olives; this was followed by unctuous kanougas chocolate toffee and soft turron nougat from Vizcaya, and Irauty sheep's cheese next to a daub of cherry jam, and all of it sluiced down with foaming jugs of various Basque ciders: red and green and yellow and very alcoholic.