Silenced in Spain

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  Burke snuck up a couple of metres and spotted Bothwick’s bike. It was a crumpled, twisted mess. The vehicle which had struck Burke had been going fast.

  But why? This was a nasty stretch of road, best traveled by animals and walkers, not vehicles.

  After a few minutes, Chávez motioned Burke to join him.

  “This is Bothwick’s bike, right?” the policeman asked.

  “Yes.”

  “He had no mirror on his bike.”

  “Ex-pros don’t ride with mirrors,” Burke said. “They’re used to glancing over their shoulders to check for traffic. They also develop good listening skills so they know what’s coming up behind them.”

  “Well, it seems he got caught here,” Chávez suggested.

  Burke studied the dirt road around him. “Can you tell if anyone was driving with excessive speed? Or whether someone skidded sharply?”

  “We are examining the scene for that information, but it appears no vehicle went out of control.”

  “Doesn’t that suggest that maybe someone took aim at Bothwick on his bike?”

  Chávez studied Burke and then shook his head. “You’re suggesting a deliberate hit and run, but the evidence doesn’t tell us that. Besides, the late-afternoon sun can be blinding. Right now, I’d say your friend and the motorist both made errors in judgment, collided and the driver took off.”

  Burke shrugged but he didn’t believe Chávez’s scenario.

  Someone had chased Colin Bothwick, had hunted him ‒ and killed him.

  But why?

  Chapter 5

  The drive back to Peῆíscola went quickly and quietly. Ochoa pushed the car beyond the speed limit and neither officer wanted to talk much. For most of the trip, Chávez studied his tablet and Burke looked out the window and thought about Bothwick’s accident. What had Bothwick been doing for two or three hours before leaving the area? And why would he take such an awful road?

  Ochoa drove to Burke’s Peῆíscola hotel. Before Burke could climb out, Chávez turned around and said, “We might be talking again later.” And then he gave Burke his card.

  Burke got out and Ochoa drove away sharply, dodging a couple of slow-moving cars.

  Burke checked his watch. It was just a few minutes past noon. He was hungry but didn’t have enough time for a café meal. He saw a small supermarket 100 metres away and walked to it, buying a fresh baguette, a small pack of cheese and some ham. He took it across the street to a bench overlooking the beach, made himself a sandwich and watched the action before him.

  The beach was jammed with people, many of them families with young children. Everyone looked like they were having a good time and why not? The weather was perfect, the sea was calm and there was enough scenery to please almost anyone.

  Burke wished he could share their sense of freedom and fun, but he couldn’t. Colin Bothwick was dead and there was something strange about how he had died. The police didn’t seem to think so, but Burke believed Bothwick had somehow encountered some bad people in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  He checked his watch again. A half hour to go before his meeting. He watched some children start playing volleyball on the beach. They were young, no older than seven or eight, and not very skilled, but it didn’t matter; they laughed and did their best. Life was good.

  For the first time since he had flown into Spain three days before, Burke felt lonely. Maybe it was Colin Bothwick’s sudden passing that made him feel isolated. He didn’t know, but sitting there watching the beach scene, he wished Hélène was with him. But that wasn’t possible. This was her busy season at her café and she couldn’t afford to leave. Then Burke wished he could have their dog Plato with him. The feisty Jack Russell was always good company. If anyone ever threatened him, Burke knew Plato would leap to the rescue, all eight kilos of him.

  But was there a threat to him? Burke doubted it. He hadn’t upset anyone or seen anything unusual. In fact, he hadn’t seen much of anything except Peῆíscola’s beaches, castle and shops and some stretch of road between Benicàssim and Peῆíscola.

  He thought about contacting Hélène and telling her about Colin Bothwick. She had never met the Englishman, but she knew Bothwick was working with Burke in the announcers’ booth. After a few moments, Burke decided he wouldn’t reach out to her till later in the day when he knew more after his meeting with Suzanne Godard. Whenever he contacted Hélène, Burke figured she wouldn’t panic. But she’d be troubled by what had happened to someone close to Burke. And he expected she’d try to persuade him to stay away from trying to find out what happened to the Englishman.

  Burke thought he’d follow his partner’s probable advice, but he was still curious why Bothwick had taken such a poor road. And why Bothwick had delayed his return trip so much. The police were still investigating, but Burke expected they were still viewing Bothwick’s death as a hit-and-run accident.

  Burke thought what had happened to Bothwick was something else.

  He left his beach-side bench and walked to the hotel where Suzanne Godard was staying. He went inside the hotel’s revolving glass door into the massive foyer which was busy with dozens of people checking out or going to one of the hotel’s two main-floor restaurants.

  He stopped and looked around. Then he spotted Godard in a corner doing the same. They saw each other and started moving. They stopped a metre apart. Godard wasn’t smiling. In fact, Burke thought she looked like she’d just lost her best friend.

  “Paul, we have to get busy deciding some things,” Godard said.

  Burke nodded.

  Godard, who was probably early 40s, had a formidable presence. She was average height, neither thin nor heavy and obviously possessed little interest in style unlike so many other Frenchwomen; she was wearing a red-and-white, polka-dot blouse that clashed with orange trousers while her hair was stuffed willy-nilly atop her head in a tilting bun. But her jade-green eyes were sharp and indicated an intelligence that was formidable. And when she spoke, she did so in bursts and with a surprisingly deep voice. As Burke knew, she also had a quick temper and a dislike for incompetence that borrowed on the pathological. Burke liked her.

  A moment later, a tall woman with Asian features joined them, a tablet in one hand. The woman, who was as fashionable as Godard wasn’t, smiled. She looked in her late 20s, Burke thought.

  “You haven’t met my intern,” Godard said, waving a hand at the woman beside her. “This is Monique Chan.”

  Burke shook hands with the young woman who gripped his hand like a wrestler might.

  “I’ve arranged for a meeting room in the back of the hotel where we can talk,” Godard added.

  Not waiting for a reply, Godard turned and marched away. Chan quickly got on her heels. Burke followed, working to keep up with them while dodging all the others in the area. A minute later, Godard led them into a windowless room with a large table, a dozen chairs and a large smart board on one wall.

  They were barely seated when Godard turned to Burke and said, “We want you to handle all the colour commentary for the Peῆíscola stage.”

  “Alone?”

  “You’ll have Nico Menard at the main mic and he’s fine with working just with you.”

  Burke liked Menard. He’d first met the legendary French announcer when he was racing and Menard interviewed him before a stage of the Tour de France. They had chatted dozens of times over the years and Menard was always a good conversationalist. When Burke had originally heard he’d be working with Menard as a guest commentator, he’d been pleased. He knew the veteran broadcaster would put him at ease when they called the Peῆíscola stage.

  “If he’s fine with it, I am, too,” Burke said. “But isn’t there a way to find a replacement for Bothwick?”

  “Not at this moment. Anyone we’d consider is already booked,” Godard said.

  “OK, I’m in.”

  “That’s not the only thing, Paul. We’d like you to stay on for two more
stages, the one that finishes in Tarragona and the one that finishes in Girona after the first rest day.”

  “Three stages? Really?”

  “Well, we did have Bothwick booked for three,” Godard said.

  That was news to Burke. He thought Bothwick had only signed to do one stage, the one ending in Peῆíscola. He wondered why no one, including Bothwick, hadn’t mentioned that. And he pondered why Bothwick had been picked for three stages and he for one when he had more broadcast experience. Then Burke remembered. Bothwick had been engaged to the daughter of a sponsor.

  “I didn’t know he was on board for three stages,” Burke said.

  “Well, I don’t know how you didn’t know that, but he was,” Godard replied. “So, what do you think? Can you spare three more days? Your contract will be adjusted accordingly.”

  Burke did some rough calculations. Working another two stages would make for a healthy cheque. He was doing OK from his blogs, columns and TV sports show, but he could use some extra euros. As for his knowledge of the Tarragona and Girona routes, he’d ridden portions as a pro and so he could sound knowledgeable when providing colour commentary.

  He also doubted Hélène would mind; her hours these days at the café were long and she didn’t need him for much. She could still walk Plato during breaks or get their friend Jean, who ran the village newsagent’s shop, to look after their dog when she couldn’t.

  And an extra three days wouldn’t get in the way of his TV sports show – it was on a two-week summer hiatus – and, as for his blogs and columns, he could write another couple from Spain. He was sure his editor François Lemaire wouldn’t object.

  “I accept,” Burke said. “Thank you.”

  And then he felt shame for being annoyed that Bothwick had been selected for two more stages. Burke wondered if he had fallen in love with his press clippings, his small place in the media world. Had his own ego grown so substantial that he was more bothered by a perceived slight than by the death of someone he knew? All that mattered was Bothwick was dead.

  Godard broke into Burke’s thoughts, jabbing a thumb toward her intern. “Monique will look after your travel and hotel arrangements, and get you that information. She’ll also provide you the details about pre-show meetings we’ll have in Tarragona and Girona.”

  Burke looked at the intern who smiled and nodded. “I have your contact information, Monsieur Burke, so I’ll be in touch,” Chan said. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle everything.”

  The way she said it, Burke was convinced she would.

  “Now, I’ve talked to Nico and we’re putting together a short news release about Bothwick’s passing,” Godard said. “Nico will also mention it on air when he’s covering the stage.”

  “Where is Nico right now?”

  “He’s in Valencia calling the stage. He’ll be here later tonight. You can talk tomorrow morning. In fact, we’ll have a meeting here at 8 a.m.”

  Burke was fine with early meetings. He liked to get up early, see the sun rise and feel the energy of a new day. A meeting wasn’t his favourite activity, but it was better to sort through any potential logistical problems well in advance.

  And maybe another day would make Burke feel less guilt and anger about Bothwick’s death.

  “Now I have one more task for you,” Godard said.

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s a special dinner tonight for race sponsors, people who’ve bought into a special travel package aimed at the Vuelta, local politicians, area bigshots, you know, the cream of local society around this part of the country. It’s being held in the courtyard of the castle.”

  Burke thought such a setting would be spectacular. Of all the castles he’d seen in Europe, the one in this small town had an unsurpassed setting.

  “I want you to attend,” Godard said. “We had Bothwick scheduled to be there, but now he obviously can’t. However tragic his death is, the attendees will still want to meet a famous pro cyclist and so we want you there.”

  Once more, Burke considered Bothwick. He believed the Englishman hadn’t been anything special in the pro peloton, but neither had he. They’d both been employed as domestiques, or riders who did the grunt work for the team’s stars, ferrying water bottles and food, blocking the wind, pacing the big guns up mountain climbs until they could barely make the pedals turn. Famous? No way.

  But Burke didn’t argue. He could see Godard was serious and wouldn’t be deterred from appointing him to the job.

  “Well, I was hardly a star, but I’ll do what I can,” Burke said.

  “We know you’ll do well,” Godard said. “You have some celebrity status and you’re fluent in Spanish and French as well as English which will be helpful since some of the guests will be from the United States and Britain.”

  Burke nodded. He was good with languages. After being in a place for six months, he could usually speak the local language like a native. It was probably his best talent.

  “And Paul, I recommend you check out the names of the invitees beforehand so you don’t look foolish when you’re there.”

  So much for being a star, Burke thought. He nodded and said he’d start learning the identities as soon as they were done with the meeting.

  “Dress is casual, but stylish,” Godard said. “Do you have anything that fits the bill?”

  Burke wasn’t sure what constituted ‘casual and stylish’ but thought he could manage something. “I’ve got some clothes that should work.”

  “And stay away from the booze. Keep it to a glass or two of cava. But no more.”

  Burke frowned. He was no longer a heavy drinker. He managed a pastis and a beer every second day, but he couldn’t recall the last time he’d imbibed too much.

  “I’ll be good,” he said.

  Godard detected his sarcasm. “It’s just that we don’t need to annoy any important people,” she said.

  “I understand. I’ll be on my best behaviour. I promise.”

  Godard then reviewed broadcast times for the Peῆíscola stage, ensuring Burke knew where to go and when to be there. Burke nodded throughout. He was ready.

  “Good. Monique, give Paul the list of those attending tonight’s soirée.”

  Chan handed Burke three sheets of paper with columns of information and mug shots of people. Burke looked down. He had a lot of homework to do and fast.

  “And here’s a nametag,” Chan added, handing Burke a shiny tag which had his name and the TV network’s identity. “Put it on the right side of your chest so people will see it better when you reach out to shake hands.”

  “Now we’re finished,” Godard said.

  She stood and walked out of the room without another word. Chan followed.

  Burke stayed behind. He pulled out his phone and texted François Lemaire that he’d been asked to stay for two more stages. He didn’t offer details, but promised he’d keep up with his blogs. Two minutes later, Lemaire made it official – Burke could stay.

  Then Burke glanced at the sheets Chan had given him. He’d study the names and faces till he felt comfortable. He hoped it wouldn’t take too long, but figured he’d need a few hours. His memory wasn’t the best.

  He stood. He was still disappointed with himself about his initial reaction to Bothwick getting more stages than he had.

  “Burke, you can be a real jerk,” he muttered to himself.

  Chapter 6

  Hélène answered on the second ring.

  Burke, feeling lonely in his hotel room, was happy to hear her voice and told her so. And then he mentioned the TV network wanted him to stay around for another three days to do more announcing.

  “What happened?” Hélène said.

  Burke told her about Colin Bothwick and how Suzanne Godard had decided Burke could handle the extra colour-commentary responsibility.

  “And the police haven’t arrested anyone?” Hélène said.

  “I don’t think so.”

&
nbsp; “Well, I’m sorry to hear the news, but glad you weren’t riding with him.”

  “It’s just so bizarre,” Burke said. And then he told her about how Bothwick had stayed in the area for a few hours before riding the rough secondary road where he was fatally hit.

  “Does anyone know why he stayed around so long?”

  “The police don’t seem to have a clue.”

  “And what about you, chéri? What do you think Colin was doing?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Burke said. “I don’t think that when he left me, he had the intention of staying around there for long. I think he saw something, got caught up in it and then tried to get away fast.”

  “Why do say he tried to get away fast?”

  “He never would have taken that road unless he had no choice. That’s what I tried to get across to the police, but they weren’t listening.”

  “Are you suggesting his death was more than an accidental hit and run?”

  Burke thought for a few moments and said, “I think someone deliberately ran him over.”

  “Murdered him?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But why? Because of something he saw?”

  “That’s my guess.”

  “But what could he have seen in that area? You said there was nothing happening. No people, no traffic, nothing.”

  “That’s what has me puzzled.”

  Hélène paused. Then she said, “Paul, are you considering looking into what happened to Colin?”

  “No. It’s a police matter although they seem to have written it off as an accident. I’ve got too many things to do right now.”

  “Good.”

  “But even if I wanted to, I don’t think I could find out what happened.”

  “Then leave it alone. As you said, it’s a police matter.”

  Burke knew she worried about how he sometimes got involved in criminal investigations. A couple of times, he’d put himself at risk. And she’d hated that.

  And when he considered what they’d been discussing, Burke knew there wasn’t much, if anything, he could do. If he tried to find out what happened to Bothwick, he wouldn’t know where to start. Moreover, he was alone without anyone to help. It was just too bad the police were considering Bothwick’s death to be a tragic accident, nothing more.