Silenced in Spain

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  Then he went back to bed, hoping he could manage a good night’s sleep, but doubting he would.

  Chapter 3

  Tossing and turning most of the night, Burke finally gave up and got out of bed at 5 a.m. He made a coffee from the machine in his room and went back out to his balcony. Sunrise wasn’t for another two hours and the only light came from the street lights below. But it was already warm, probably in the mid 20s. He expected the temperature would climb into the mid 30s by noon.

  He looked down and saw a couple of runners jogging along the promenade. Farther to the west, he spotted several dozen workers erecting barriers, obviously for the Vuelta which would be arriving the next day. The big show was coming.

  And despite the early hour, there were already hundreds of people wandering about. Everyone seemed in a good mood, laughing and smiling like they didn’t have a care in the world which was strange to Burke, given how recent terrorist attacks and battles over Catalan independence had shaken Spain, and especially this region, so badly.

  He drank his coffee slowly and made himself a second one, trying not to let his mind think too much as he waited for sunrise. He listened to the waves of the Mediterranean lapping against the shoreline and the leaves of the palm trees rippling in the breeze. Unlike the previous night, the scene was of pure tranquility, but he knew that would change soon. If anything, the new day promised to be busier and noisier than the day before.

  But he felt no excitement. Just sadness about Colin Bothwick and a strange wariness about going out on a drive with the local police. He doubted he was in any trouble, but experience told him that strange things could happen when the police were trying to sort out a mystery.

  After showering and dressing, Burke went down to the hotel restaurant at 7, grabbing a newspaper from the reception area on the way. The restaurant, which didn’t have any customers yet, was open earlier than most because it had a strong clientele of English tourists. If the clientele was exclusively Spanish, Burke expected it probably wouldn’t open until 8.

  A sleepy-eyed young server appeared and Burke ordered more coffee and a cheese omelet which was obviously on the menu to satisfy the restaurant’s English clientele. When the server left, no doubt wishing she had managed more bedtime, Burke began reading his newspaper.

  The front page story was about the upcoming stage of the Vuelta. Everyone sounded excited. It would be a grand event for the town and for the region. The mayor said so and so did other politicians. And there were comments from cycling fans who’d made the trip to Peῆiscola. Some had even come from as far as Madrid. A good time was guaranteed.

  He looked inside the paper and spotted a small story on page 3 that mentioned a highway fatality near Oropesa del Mar. It said a cyclist had been struck in a hit-and-run accident. The rider’s identity wasn’t given and a police spokesperson said “an investigation was underway.” End of story.

  Burke expected Bothwick’s fiancée and family had been notified about his death. He couldn’t imagine how horrible it would be for them to hear such news.

  Then he wondered if his TV bosses had heard about Bothwick. He expected they had. Would they be busy lining up a replacement for Bothwick or would they decide Burke could provide all the colour commentary while Nico Menard handled the main announcing? He figured he’d find out soon.

  The coffee showed up and Burke instantly appreciated how much better it was from the packaged stuff he’d had in his room. It was rich, strong and delicious. As he sipped it, a middle-aged couple walked in, chatting in English. They sat at a nearby table and, when the server showed up, ordered tea.

  Ten minutes later, the restaurant was half full and becoming noisy with a blend of English, Russian, French and Spanish voices. Burke looked around and noticed several guests wearing Vuelta clothing. They were obviously there for the big race.

  Burke’s omelet showed up. The server, looking more energetic, gave him a smile before bustling off to attend to another table. The other server in the restaurant was equally as busy.

  Burke took a bite out of the omelet and smiled. It was excellent, a little heavier than what he was used to back on the Riviera, but tasty indeed.

  “Excuse me, but are you Paul Burke?” came a voice from nearby.

  The speaker was the man who, with his partner, were sitting close by and had ordered tea.

  Burke occasionally got recognized in public, thanks to his blogs, columns and appearances on the TV sports show based out of Nice. Sometimes, a person remembered him from his bike-racing days. He didn’t mind the little fame he received. It probably helped promote his media efforts. He also knew if he lost his blog, column and TV gigs, he’d struggle to pay the bills. His skill set outside of cycling was limited.

  “Yes, that’s me,” Burke replied with a smile.

  The man smiled back and nodded. “I thought it was. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I just want to say how much I admire what you’ve done to help solve some of those murders.”

  Burke hadn’t expected that.

  “I know most people recognize you for your blog and TV show, but I just wanted to tell you that what you did in solving those crimes is more important,” the man said.

  “How do you know about that?” Burke said.

  The man smiled. “We’re English but we spend half of every year in Provence. We have a cottage in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence which I believe you know reasonably well.”

  Burke said he did and thanked the Englishman for his comments.

  “Are you here for the Vuelta a Espaῆa?” Burke asked.

  “Yes, we bought a holiday package that gives us five stages of the race plus all the extra activities such as tonight’s entertainment at the castle. Peῇíscola is the start of our trip.”

  “We’re really looking forward to the evening inside the castle,” added the woman. “We’re fans of the Game of Thrones and know the castle is used for some of the filming.”

  Burke asked their names. Maggie and Bryan Watson from Guildford, Surrey.

  “And what brings you here, Monsieur Burke?” the Englishman said. “The Vuelta a Espaῆa?”

  “I’m doing some commentating on the stage that finishes here.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do well.”

  Burke wasn’t sure about that, but he smiled and said he hoped he would, too.

  “Well, I hope you find it peaceful around here,” Watson continued. He smiled. “I know you have a tendency to find trouble.”

  “I hope you’re right about it being peaceful,” Burke said.

  But he knew it was too late. He had already found trouble.

  Chapter 4

  Burke was standing outside the hotel when he saw the blue-and-white police car pull up. He checked his watch. It was exactly 8 a.m.

  Ochoa, the older cop he’d talked to the previous night, opened the driver’s door and climbed out. His dark eyes looked tired and his broad shoulders seemed to slump slightly. Burke wondered if he’d gotten any sleep at all.

  From the passenger’s side emerged a slightly younger man, thin and handsome with wavy black hair, dressed in a blue polo shirt and grey slacks. He walked around the front of the car and right up to Burke.

  Ochoa waved a hand toward his companion, saying, “Seῆor Burke, this is Inspector Alejandro Chávez. He is our specialist in traffic accidents for this region. By the way, I am Officer Mateo Ochoa.”

  Burke was curious why neither man offered his full Spanish name. Usually, a Spaniard provided his first name, his surname and then his mother’s maiden name. Maybe they’d gone with the father’s surname to keep it simple for him. After all, he held a Canadian passport and lived in France; he could hardly be expected to know Spanish customs.

  As they stood on the sidewalk, Burke wondered if he should shake hands. But Inspector Chávez ended that thought by saying they didn’t have time to waste and turned back toward the car. Burke followed and Ochoa opened the rear door for him to get in.


  As the car pulled away, Burke saw some pedestrians watching. To them, he was probably a potential villain, about to get the third-degree and maybe some time in the local jail. He spotted a couple of bystanders aiming their cameras at him and wondered if anyone recognized him. Then he saw the English couple from the café and he wondered what they might be thinking.

  Ochoa quickly manoeuvred the car out of the town’s crowded tourist zone and five minutes later they were speeding westward on the national highway. No one was passing the police vehicle and Burke thought Ochoa probably had repressed Grand Prix dreams.

  Conversation inside the car was minimal. Chávez asked Burke to recount what Bothwick said when they went in different directions. Burke told him. Chávez asked whose bikes they used and what kind they were. Burke told them they’d both brought their own racing machines. End of conversation.

  They were half way to Benicàssim when Burke got a text from Suzanne Godard, his boss on his TV gig. He had been expecting it. Her title was associate producer for pre-race planning. That meant she had to make sure everything was ready when the Vuelta showed up. With Bothwick dead, she had a major problem.

  “I just heard about Colin Bothwick,” she said. “We need to meet asap.”

  Burke replied he was with the police and would be unavailable for another three hours or so.

  “Are you in trouble?” she said.

  Burke thought that if she figured he was unavailable, she’d have a heart attack. In the two meetings he’d had with her previously, she’d been the definition of intense. But it had been understandable. Televising the Vuelta, as it was with the Tour de France, was a massive logistical challenge.

  He explained he was only helping the police with their investigation. He added he’d probably be free before noon. She texted back with a request for a 1 p.m. meeting at her hotel. He agreed.

  “Don’t be late,” Godard said. “We have to solve this problem.”

  Before Burke could decide on a reply, she added: “Such tragic news about Colin.”

  Finally, some sympathy, but Burke doubted it was sincere, given she’d been initially occupied with how to replace him in the announcers’ booth.

  “Sad indeed,” Burke texted.

  That was the end of their conversation. Burke sat back and wondered what Godard would do. Could she really find someone on short notice who knew the route and was acceptable in the booth? It wouldn’t be easy. Burke was glad it wasn’t his problem.

  When Ochoa took the turnoff to Benicàssim, Chávez asked Burke to direct them to where he and Bothwick had started their ride. Burke complied, getting Ochoa to stop at the far west of town, not far from the highway.

  “We started right at this very spot,” Burke added.

  “Now, show us exactly where you went.”

  Burke had no trouble remembering the route. He knew the area from training and racing in the region years before. The town had fewer than 20,000 residents and was largely a resort community for the Spanish middle class, but it was perfect for training, given the consistently warm weather and the access to nearby climbs which tested any rider’s legs.

  “Did you take the tunnel?” Chávez asked as they reached the east end of town.

  Burke knew what the inspector meant. Between Benicàssim and Oropesa was a tunnel through a mountain. It had originally been used by trains but had later been converted into a pathway for cyclists, joggers and walkers. Burke had cycled the route several times and marveled at the breathtaking coastal scenes on both sides of the tunnel, but he and Bothwick hadn’t taken it because it wasn’t part of the Vuelta route. They’d gone through town on main roads.

  “And then what?” Chávez said, making notes on a mini-tablet.

  “We went a couple of kilometres along the way and then dropped down into Oropesa.”

  “So, you were following the Vuelta route as much as possible.”

  “Yes. We wanted to know the last half of the route.”

  “Keep directing us then, Seῆor Burke.”

  Burke guided them through Oropesa, not far from the bull ring, and then onto the new road that connected Oropesa to the holiday-resort, bedroom community that was built just before the 2008 recession and which never really attracted tourists in the numbers the developers anticipated. As a result, bankruptcies were abundant for the area.

  As they drove, Burke thought the resort community was slightly busier than the day before, but that notion didn’t last long. After another kilometre, he could see few vehicles or people. Two more kilometres and he saw no movement anywhere and he once again felt the world had ended.

  “Colin turned here,” Burke said, leaning forward and pointing to the right.

  “And you don’t know what made him go in that direction?” Chávez asked.

  “No. But that’s Colin – or it was Colin. He did a lot of things on a whim. Maybe he did yesterday. He certainly didn’t give me a reason for going in that direction beyond curiosity.”

  “Why didn’t you go with him?”

  “I wanted to finish the route before it got too hot. Besides, I wanted to do some research on what we’d seen.”

  “Show me where you went.”

  Burke directed them to go straight another kilometre and then take a left turn traveling under an overpass. Two kilometres beyond that was the main highway with the cordoned-off lane for the stage race.

  Ochoa stopped before the highway and turned the car around without any prompting. Then he drove back to where Burke had told them Bothwick had left him.

  “And you’re 100 per cent certain this is where he went?” Chávez said.

  “Yes.”

  Chávez motioned for Ochoa to follow Bothwick’s route. Burke expected one or both of them had already gone through the area, but he didn’t say anything, just sat and watched.

  There wasn’t much to see.

  The area was still deserted. Then a car drove up, stopped and four people – two adults and two children no older than six – piled out and walked toward the closest apartment building.

  “There’s finally some activity around here,” Chávez said.

  Burke said nothing.

  Ochoa drove up and down every street for the next 15 minutes. They saw no one else. When they returned to where they’d started, Burke noticed a large truck was parked and a half dozen workers were putting up Vuelta banners. Finally, some recognition that the race was coming through this area although Burke doubted anyone would be there in person to cheer on the cyclists.

  “Inspector, where was Bothwick killed?” Burke said.

  Chávez turned and looked at Burke for a few seconds and then tapped Ochoa on the shoulder. “Take us to the accident site, Ochoa.”

  The uniformed cop nodded, went 50 metres and turned the police car left onto a dirt road.

  “Are you sure this is the way Bothwick went?” Burke asked as they bumped and swerved their way along the potholed road.

  “This is the way,” Chávez said.

  “I can’t believe he’d come this way,” Burke insisted.

  “Well, he did, Seῆor Burke. I can assure you of that.”

  “But it makes no sense for him to ride this road.”

  “And why is that?”

  “First, he knew the race route was just ahead and it was on a good surface. Second, he was riding his own bike and he wouldn’t want to risk damaging the wheels or his carbon-fibre frame by hitting a pothole. One bad bump could cost him a lot of money in repairs. And Bothwick wasn’t rich.”

  “But he was a professional cyclist,” Chávez said. “He’d have missed the bad parts.”

  Burke studied the road. There were potholes everywhere. While Bothwick was an ex-pro cyclist which meant he could handle a bike with great skill, he was still going to hit potholes on this route. There were just too many to avoid.

  “OK, but why not take the race route?” Burke said.

  “Maybe he decided to take a short cut.
”

  Burke didn’t buy that idea, but didn’t say so. “Did you see his tire marks?” he asked Chávez.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see any other tire marks?”

  “Several.”

  “Do you know which ones belonged to the vehicle that struck Bothwick?”

  “That’s part of our investigation and the information is not available to the public or media,” Chávez replied.

  “It still makes no sense,” Burke said.

  “A tragic hit-and-run. Unfortunately, we get our share around here.”

  “Do you know what time he was hit?” Burke said.

  “It was late afternoon.”

  That was also odd, Burke thought. Late afternoon meant Bothwick had spent a couple of hours or more in the area. But doing what? Had he gone back to Oropesa for a drink? To do some shopping? Take a nap under a tree? No, there was no logic behind the delay. Or behind Bothwick’s choice of roads.

  Two minutes later, Ochoa pulled the car up behind two oversized police vans parked on the side of the road and turned off the ignition. Fifty metres ahead was the national highway with cars and trucks whizzing by.

  Burke saw four people dressed head to toe in white smocks going through a dry gully beside the road. One person was taking photos while the others were poking through the dirt and dry grass. Burke didn’t know what they were searching for.

  “Come with me, Seῆor Burke,” Chávez said.

  They got out of the car ‒ Ochoa stayed behind and wrote in a notebook ‒ and walked toward where Bothwick had obviously been struck. The inspector motioned for Burke to stop while he went ahead a few steps and had a conversation with one of the white-smock crew. Burke couldn’t hear a word.