For the grandkids
… passing on my love of cycling and travel
Copyright © D’Arcy Kavanagh
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system without the prior written consent of the author, or in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency is an infringement of the copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, events and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 9781543949919
Published by BookBaby
Cover photo of Peῇíscola castle by D’Arcy Kavanagh
www.wowtours.com
Previous Paul Burke mysteries by D’Arcy Kavanagh:
The Bastard is Dead
A Vintage End
Deception on the Danube
Corsica Born and Dead
Table of contents
Foreword
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
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Epilogue
Author’s Note
New Paul Burke Mystery
About the author
Foreword
Spain, with 505,000 square kilometres, is one of the biggest countries in Europe, larger than Germany, Italy, Sweden and Norway. It has mountain ranges, coastal plains and beaches, and a climate that can be intolerably hot during summer and brutally cold in winter.
Its people are proud and its history is marked by great discoveries and terrible conflicts.
In short, Spain is a complex country.
It’s also a fiercely sporting nation with millions devoted to soccer (football to Europeans), basketball, handball and, yes, bullfighting.
And to one more sport – cycling.
Its three-week race, the Vuelta a Espaῇa, is one of the great cycling challenges in the world, testing the finest riders to their limit as they compete over terrain that is stunning and rugged. Only the toughest, most talented champions win the Vuelta.
The race has been around since 1935. However, it didn’t always operate during its early years because of the Spanish Civil War and the Second World War. Since 1955, the Vuelta has been held annually.
For its first few decades the Vuelta was held in spring but then it was moved to its current time of late August to mid-September.
That’s when Spain goes through subtle weather changes and when Spaniards put aside summer for thoughts about autumn and the winter ahead.
The Vuelta is all about change. And surprise. And danger.
As Paul Burke, ex-pro bicycle racer and current blogger along the French Riviera, learns when he comes to Spain.
Chapter 1
Spain’s greatest cycling race, the Vuelta a Espaῆa, would be coming through this coastal community in two days, and Paul Burke was surprised he saw nothing to indicate any special event was about to happen. No signs, no banners, no street markings, nothing.
As he and his one-time racing competitor Colin Bothwick cycled farther along the road to get a sense of the route for the stage they’d be commentating on, Burke looked around at the dozens of 10-storey apartment buildings.
And saw no sign of life.
No people, no cars, no birds. It felt like the world had ended and they had missed being notified.
“This is incredible,” Bothwick said, echoing Burke’s thoughts. “Not a soul. I can’t imagine why the race organizers would want to bring the route through here. The scenery is fine, but it’s like this area has been abandoned or something.”
“It’s definitely weird,” Burke said. “It’s probably a result of the last recession.”
“I just don’t understand what the race organizers were thinking.”
Neither did Burke.
The stage route would only go through this desolate community, which was located just outside the town of Oropesa del Mar, for three or four kilometres. Then the route would turn back onto the highway and proceed eastward toward the end of the stage in the picturesque coastal town of Peῆiscola. Burke knew the scene there would be dramatically different since Peῆiscola was home to a spectacular Templar castle that jutted into the Mediterranean Sea and which had been used for the popular TV series, the Game of Thrones. Anything fewer than 20,000 people along the final three kilometres of the route would be a disappointment. Here? Maybe five persons. Maybe no one.
“Paul, this is so strange that I’m just going to poke around for a few minutes,” Bothwick said with a grin. “You continue on and I’ll contact you when we’re back in Peῆiscola, OK? Then we’ll get a drink and compare notes for covering the race.”
Burke would have preferred company for the next 50 kilometres which would travel along a dull section of highway that had been partly cordoned off in preparation for the race, but Bothwick was already turning away.
“See you later,” Burke called out, getting a wave in response.
Burke thought Bothwick had mellowed considerably since his fiery racing days a decade earlier, but he still had an edge to him. And he still seemed to do things on a whim. Like right then, riding off to see what was around the next corner.
But Burke didn’t have to like Bothwick, he just had to get along with him when they were before the TV mics to provide colour commentary on the race. Burke had earned the Vuelta gig after several years of blogging for a southern French newspaper chain and for his efforts on a sports panel show for a TV station in Nice, France. And maybe because he’d earned some headlines in helping solve some murders along the way. As for Bothwick, Burke figured he’d got the one-stage gig because he was engaged to the daughter of one of the Vuelta’s main sponsors.
However, the Vuelta was no easy job, Burke knew. One of cycling’s three Grand Tours with the others being in Italy and France, the Vuelta was a three-week test of stamina and will. During that period and over stages totaling 3,500 kilometres, the already skinny cyclists would become skeletal-like as they pushed themselves t
o near collapse. Their daily routine was simple: Eat, race, eat, sleep and then repeat. And try to survive.
For the thousands of Vuelta workers, the staff of the 22 cycling teams plus the 2,000 media covering the race, the Vuelta would test their ability to function on four hours of sleep a night. And yet most of those people would probably sign up to do it again the next year and the year after. It was the excitement, the adrenaline rush and the sense of moving around the country in a strange cocoon that kept workers and media returning.
Burke, however, didn’t have to slog through the full three weeks. He was scheduled to provide commentary for one stage and his efforts would be rewarded by a good paycheque, a chance to watch some quality racing and an opportunity to re-visit some familiar places. He smiled to himself as he turned onto the national highway and rode along the protected lane. And then he punched the pedals a little harder. This stretch was all about hot, dry hills and not much more. Even the lizards and snakes probably stayed away.
Two hours later, he took the downhill turn toward Peῆiscola and let his racing bike coast. Within seconds, he was doing 40 km/h. A half minute later, he was barely pedaling and going 60. The road kept dropping toward the sea and, in the distance, toward the castle which sat majestically atop a promontory. He had visited the town before and explored the castle, but it was still a memorable way to approach Peῆiscola.
When he entered the town, he saw banners promoting the Vuelta and businesses setting up curbside operations. The sidewalks were jammed with pedestrians while the side streets were busy with cyclists. The community had a festive air and Burke liked that.
He rode through the last roundabout and cycled by the busy promenade and by the crowded beaches. He went a couple of kilometres and stopped at the four-star hotel where his TV hosts had booked him. It wasn’t the fanciest accommodation on the strip, but it was a couple of levels above where he usually stayed and he was definitely not complaining. He didn’t care that the rest of the TV crew were staying in a five-star hotel a half block away.
After showering, Burke opened his tablet and watched the highlights of that day’s Vuelta stage. It had ended 300 kilometres southwest and had been won in a sprint by a tall, powerful German. Burke made a couple of notes and then went onto his fourth-storey balcony and gazed at the stunning seaside view with a mountain to the east and a castle to the west. Peῆiscola was a tourist town of 8,000, but tripled in size during summer and was likely even busier with the Vuelta coming to town.
He was glad the French TV network had offered him the part-time gig to cover the Spanish race, partly because it added to his bank account, but also because it gave him the chance to take in the energy and excitement of one of cycling’s greatest events, one he had competed in a decade before, finishing exactly 100th.
It also gave him the opportunity to get re-acquainted with Spain. He had spent a year living there while racing for a team based out of Valencia. He had fallen in love with the climate, the food and the countryside. He had also become fluent in Spanish. As for the people, he had become accustomed to their taciturn ways that generally masked a wicked sense of humour. They were a challenging people, but worth the time to get to know.
After sitting on the balcony for an hour, he decided to go out for a drink. Maybe by then Colin Bothwick would be back and they could meet to review their observations about the last part of the route. That way, they could provide some commentary that actually wasn’t telling viewers what they could obviously see.
Burke went to a nearby bar and texted Bothwick. He waited several minutes without a response and then phoned but Bothwick didn’t answer. After two beers without hearing from his broadcast partner and feeling hungry, Burke went to a café specializing in tapas because he didn’t want to wait another hour until the local restaurants began serving dinner. He hoped a few tapas would do the trick.
And they did. He had patatas bravas and gambas al ajillo which turned out to be the best garlic shrimp he’d ever had. He washed them down with a glass of first-rate sangria.
Still nothing from Bothwick.
Back in his room, Burke went outside, sat on his balcony and watched the action below as the sun disappeared. If anything, there were more people on the promenade and the traffic was almost bumper to bumper. It was still warm, probably 30 degrees, perfect for enjoying the Mediterranean evening.
He heard a knock on his door.
It was probably Bothwick.
It wasn’t.
Two police officers in crisp, dark-blue uniforms stood before him.
“You are Paul Burke?” asked the older one who was maybe 35.
“Yes,” replied Burke in his Valencian accent.
“We need to talk to you for a few minutes.”
Burke moved slightly to the side and the two flics entered. The younger officer, who was maybe 25 with bulging biceps stretching his short-sleeved shirt, closed the door behind them.
“May I see some identification, please,” said the older officer whose nametag said simply ‘Ochoa.’
“What’s this about?”
“Identification, please.”
Burke grabbed his passport and showed it to the older flic who flipped through the pages for a few seconds.
“I’d like to know … ” Burke said.
“You went for a bicycle ride earlier today with Colin Bothwick, correct?” interrupted Ochoa.
Burke couldn’t figure out why the flic asked such a question. “Yes. We rode from Benicàssim, through Oropesa del Mar and then we split up. Why? What’s going on?”
“You returned to Peῆiscola alone?”
“Yes, I got back about 5 p.m. Please tell me what’s happened.”
“Colin Bothwick has been found dead.”
Chapter 2
Burke had dealt with police at his front door before and it had never been about good news, but learning Bothwick was dead after they’d been riding together so recently was shocking and for a few seconds Burke found himself barely breathing. It hardly seemed possible. He and his former rival had been casually cycling along a deserted route, chatting, planning what they’d say during the next day’s telecast and then Bothwick had detoured. And turned up dead. It had to be a mistake. And yet two local police officers were telling him otherwise.
“Please sit down, Seῆor,” Ochoa said.
Burke nodded and sat on the spongy couch, grateful because his legs were shaking. He had confronted sudden death before, but it didn’t lessen the impact of the officers’ news.
“What happened?” Burke asked.
“That is what we are looking into,” the policeman replied. “However, I can tell you it appears to be a hit-and-run accident.”
“A hit and run? When? Where?”
Ochoa ignored Burke’s questions, saying, “Please, tell us what the two of you did and when you last saw Seῆor Bothwick. And be precise.”
The other policeman stood nearby, a notebook in hand, ready to scribble anything of interest. Burke wondered if he ever got the chance to talk.
It took Burke a few moments to marshal his thoughts and then he began, telling how they’d planned to cover the last 80 kilometres of the upcoming stage so they could report on it with some knowledge. As he recounted his day with Bothwick, Burke’s brain flooded with images of their ride together and how Bothwick had cracked a couple of corny jokes, his toothy grin making Burke smile.
Bothwick was dead?
“Tell us specifically what route you followed,” Ochoa said.
Burke recounted how he and Bothwick had arranged for one of the sponsors to transfer them and their bikes to Benicàssim where they started. After that, they rode through Oropesa del Mar. Shortly after, they split up.
“And you never saw him again, Seῆor Burke?”
“No.”
“Did you see anything odd?”
“Just before we split up, we rode through an area where we saw almost nothing. No people, no cars, no s
ign of life. It seemed odd to us.”
Burke noticed the younger officer writing in his notebook.
“And why did you think it was odd?” Ochoa said.
“There were lots of buildings but they seemed abandoned. That might not have been the case, but it sure looked that way. Like I said, there was no sign of life.”
“And why did you split up?”
Burke explained how Bothwick often acted on a whim and how, this time, he’d told Burke he wanted to ride in another direction to check out the area. Before Burke could react, Bothwick had turned and pedaled away on his adventure. When Burke had called out to him, Bothwick hadn’t looked back, just waved and kept riding.
Ochoa nodded. “Tomorrow morning, another officer and I will be going to the area where Seῆor Bothwick died,” he said. “We want you to accompany us and show us exactly where you cycled.”
Burke understood it was more than a polite request. “What time?”
“Eight o’clock sharp. In front of your hotel. Please don’t be late.”
Then they left.
Burke went out to the balcony once more and sat, but not to watch the action below. He needed fresh air and to understand what the flics had told him.
He couldn’t get Colin Bothwick’s grinning face out of his mind.
Dead?
A couple of minutes later, Burke heard his smartphone buzz with a new text. It was from Hélène Rappaneau, his partner back in the old village part of Villeneuve-Loubet along the French Riviera. She asked how his trip was going and said she missed him.
Burke knew Hélène had probably texted during a break from work at her Café de Neptune. He wanted to hear her voice, but understood she’d be busy. Another time would be better. Maybe in the morning after his outing with the local police. He didn’t want to give her the bad news when they couldn’t talk at length.
“Interesting so far,” he texted back. “Will phone you tomorrow in late morning. Love you.”
A moment later, she responded with “Love you, too.”
Burke undressed and climbed into bed. He turned on the TV and started watching a Spanish sit-com, but he couldn’t concentrate. When the canned laughter erupted, he frowned. He couldn’t handle the forced comedy. He changed the channel to a documentary on olive trees, but he could only concentrate on it for a few minutes. Finally, he gave up, turned off the television and went to the small desk where he wrote a blog on his laptop. He talked about the atmosphere in Peῇíscola and didn’t mention Colin Bothwick’s death. Maybe he’d blog about Bothwick another day.
Silenced in Spain Page 1
