Silenced in Spain

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  Burke felt a tap on his arm. Monique Chan was standing beside him, tall in white stiletto heels and dressed in white flared trousers and a black blouse. She looked older than she had before and Burke put it down to a difference in makeup.

  “I have two people over here who would like to meet you,” she said, nodding toward a 40-something couple watching from five metres away. The two looked like they’d just come from the golf course. They wore checked slacks while the man sported a red polo shirt and the woman a navy blue one.

  “Lead on then,” Burke said, hoping he’d find these new people to be as pleasant as Seῆor López.

  When they reached the couple, Chan broke into excellent English and introduced them as Tim Fritz and his wife Wendy Klassen. Burke shook hands with both.

  “This young lady was telling us about how one of the TV announcers for tomorrow was here and we asked if we could meet him,” Tim Fritz said in an accent that Burke thought derived from the midwest of the United States.

  Burke related how he’d come to Peῆíscola to be a one-stage commentator, but circumstances “had changed” and he was doing two more stages in Tarragona and Girona.

  “That must be exciting for you, Paul,” Fritz said, making it sound like they were long-time friends. “As it turns out, Wendy and I are following the Vuelta for the next four stages before we fly home, so I expect we’ll bump into you in Tarragona and Girona.”

  Burke wasn’t sure about that, but he didn’t say so, just smiled and asked what brought Fritz and his wife to Spain.

  “I’m the publisher of a variety of lifestyle magazines, including one about cycling. Our various readerships extend beyond the U.S. borders and it seemed a nice way to combine a business visit with some of our distributors here in Spain with a little holiday. I’m also a bit of a cycling fan as is Wendy. So when our schedules looked open, we gassed up our jet and came over.”

  “You’ve got your own plane?” Burke said.

  “Yes, a Gulfstream. It’s not the fastest, but it does the trick and it’s a comfortable ride.”

  Burke could see Fritz wasn’t being arrogant, just friendly with his casual description of his plane. The American was obviously doing well with his publishing company and whatever other business interests he had.

  The thought of flying overseas in a private jet almost made Burke drool. On his last trip from France back to Montréal for a family visit, Burke, who wasn’t a big man, had been jammed in a back row that would have made an infant squirm. By the time the plane landed, he had aches and pains that lasted two days.

  He put aside dreams of flying in a private jet and chatted with Fritz and Klassen about the Vuelta, the best European cities for food – Fritz believed Madrid topped the list while Klassen said Rome was the best – and the Spanish political turmoil that was creating troubles in Catalonia. Burke enjoyed the American couple. They were well informed, interested in listening as much as in talking and funny, especially Fritz who had the gift of gab. When they parted, Burke hoped he’d see them at the upcoming stages. They were good company.

  Just as Burke joined a group discussing the plight of high-end restaurant owners across Spain, a tall, willowy woman with flowing grey hair and a purple dress mounted the stage and went to the microphone. She taped the mic, got a little feedback and introduced herself. She was Ana Paula Ferrer, the mayor of Peῆíscola, and she was happy to welcome everyone to as special evening celebrating the arrival of Spain’s greatest bike race “to the prettiest town along the Spanish coast.”

  She was greeted with polite applause. Then she gave a few details about when the race would be arriving in the community the next day. She followed that by identifying the sponsors who had helped bring the stage to Peῆíscola. The applause went up a notch. When she said the upcoming meal had been created by the famous Chef Andres Calderόn, someone Burke had never heard about, the audience showed more enthusiasm. Clearly, they were more excited by their appetites.

  Ferrer finished with a few comments about post-meal activities and then she marched off the stage. Once off, she was greeted by several people. There was much kissing of cheeks and shaking of hands. Burke thought the mayor looked pleased with how the evening was going.

  When it was time to dine, Monique Chan directed Burke to a corner table where he sat with a group of people, not one of whom was under 70 years of age. But they were pleasant and funny, and Burke found himself enjoying the evening more and more. And when a couple of the other guests at his table starting asking about his pro-cycling career, Burke noticed everyone listening attentively as he told a couple of harmless stories.

  After dinner, which was spectacular with a wonderful paella attracting everyone’s attention, people got up and mingled while staff removed dishes and cutlery. Burke stayed with his tablemates and chatted as the band took to the stage and started tuning up. He glanced at the electric guitars and huge drum kit, and figured that rock ‘n’ roll would soon be drowning out all conversation, but he was mistaken. When the band started, they played mellow background tunes with great skill.

  The band played for an hour and took a break. Ana Paula Ferrer took the stage once more, gestured to someone on a far parapet and said in a booming voice, “You’ll want to stay where you are because you’re about to enjoy the finest fireworks show you’ll see anywhere.”

  And then the sky exploded in a dazzling combo of fireworks, fired not just from the top of the castle parapet but from other spots in town. The crowd was enthralled, applauding and cheering every spectacular display. Burke figured the scene had to be visible for 40 kilometres along the coast.

  And Burke knew the mayor hadn’t exaggerated. It was the best fireworks show he’d ever witnessed and he had seen some great ones.

  He looked around. All the faces were looking skyward and everyone was smiling. He thought fireworks brought out the child in people. It certainly did for him.

  When the fireworks ended after 20 minutes, the applause was thunderous. But it wasn’t isolated to those in the courtyard. Burke could hear cheering and clapping from outside the castle walls. A lot of people had loved the show.

  Mayor Ferrer returned to the mic. “How was that?” she said.

  More applause, more cheering.

  “Stay around for more music and more wonderful food. And don’t forget tomorrow we will celebrate one of Spain’s greatest sporting events coming to our beautiful community. It will be a memorable day.”

  The audience applauded once more.

  And then, waving to the crowd, Ferrer left the stage at the same time the musicians climbed back on for their next set.

  It was a tough act to follow, Burke thought.

  He wished Hélène had been there to share it with him.

  And Colin Bothwick, too.

  Chapter 8

  The next morning, Burke met with Suzanne Godard, Monique Chan and Nico Menard to review how the day’s telecast would work. Burke had some familiarity with the process thanks to a brief stint as a commentator a few years before, but he still paid attention. There had been significant technical improvements in recent times and Burke wanted to be as prepared as possible.

  Not surprisingly, Godard dominated the meeting, going through the timetable, the expectations and when Burke should speak. Despite her energy, Burke thought she looked tired.

  “Paul, you can’t afford to lose your focus for even a second,” Godard said, pointing a finger at him. “As with the Tour de France, the Vuelta’s video provider gives the same footage to all the media. That means we don’t know what the feed will be. Whatever we get, we have to react to. You have to be ready for anything.”

  Burke didn’t intend to lose his focus, but he didn’t debate the point. He just nodded.

  “You’ll be fine, Paul,” interjected Menard.

  Burke was thankful to be working with Menard. The native of Lyon was a master behind the mic, eloquent, knowledgeable and witty. With three decades of experience, he wa
s skilled at bringing out the best in his colour commentator. If Burke flubbed something, he knew Menard would rescue him. And be happy to do so. Menard was a genuinely nice man and seemed to lack the ego of other broadcasters Burke knew, especially a co-panelist on Burke’s sports show in Nice. That individual loved nothing more than the sound of his own voice.

  “We expect the race will finish in a sprint,” Godard said. “In that case, Paul, you leave the final call to Nico.”

  “But if you see something unusual happening, Paul, say it,” Menard said. “Just do it quickly, though.”

  Burke saw Godard frown at Menard’s comment. But she didn’t complain.

  “Now, we need you both to attend today’s luncheon,” Godard said, looking at Burke and then at Menard.

  Burke didn’t recall hearing about a luncheon. He looked at Menard who was nodding.

  “You should be there at 11, no later,” Godard said. “Grab something to eat if you want, but I want you to mingle. That’s why you’re there, just like last night at the castle. At noon, get to the broadcast booth. That’ll give you time for final preparations for the race.”

  She looked at Burke and could see he was puzzled. “Have you forgotten about the luncheon, Paul?” she said.

  “Where is it again?” Burke said.

  “One hundred metres from the finish in a big white tent. It’s for the sponsors and special guests.”

  Burke nodded, finally recalling that someone had told him.

  Godard looked at Burke for a few seconds and then left with Chan on her heels. Burke watched them go, feeling slightly intimidated by the day ahead.

  “You look a little worried, Paul,” Menard said. “What’s the matter? Anxious about today’s stage?”

  “A little.”

  But when he thought about it, Burke was still troubled by Colin Bothwick’s death. He wanted to contact the police and see if they knew anything more, not go through planning for the stage.

  “Something going on beyond the race, Paul?”

  Burke looked at the man sitting opposite him. Nico Menard didn’t miss much.

  “I was just thinking about Colin Bothwick,” Burke said. “He should be here with us.”

  Menard nodded. “I agree. His death is a real tragedy. Have you heard anything more about the motorist who struck him?”

  “No. When I talked to the police the last time, they were still considering it an accident. They were looking for the driver, but didn’t sound confident about finding him or her.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Burke checked his watch. He had time for a quick phone call. “I think I’ll contact the police to see if they have anything new on Colin.”

  “Do you think they’ll tell you?”

  “Probably not, but don’t ask, don’t get.”

  Menard stood. “If you learn anything, Paul, would you please tell me?”

  Burke said he would.

  Menard left the room and Burke punched in a number on his smartphone. He decided not to ask for Inspector Chávez. Instead, speaking Spanish, he asked to speak with Officer Mateo Ochoa.

  “And who are you?” asked the female voice at the other end.

  Burke gave his name and said Ochoa would know him from the investigation into Colin Bothwick’s death.

  “Just hold, please.”

  A minute later, Ochoa was on the line, asking what Burke wanted.

  “I’m wondering if you have any further information about what happened to Colin Bothwick,” Burke said.

  “And why are you asking me for that information, Seῆor Burke?”

  “I think Inspector Chávez has other matters on his mind.”

  There was a pause before Ochoa said, “He’s very busy these days, especially with all the security involved with the Vuelta.”

  “Aren’t you busy, too?”

  “I am. So, please don’t waste my time, Seῆor.”

  “OK. I just want to know if Bothwick’s death is still being considered an accidental hit-and-run.”

  Another pause. “It is.”

  “Have you got any idea who did it?”

  “We’re still investigating.”

  “Does anyone in the police think it was not an accident?”

  “Inspector Chávez and others are considering it an accident.”

  This time Burke took an extra moment. “And what do you think, Officer Ochoa? Do you agree it was an accident?”

  “I’m just a street cop, Seῆor Burke. The real investigative work is done by others above me.”

  That told Burke something. “So, you do have your doubts, Officer.”

  Ochoa said nothing.

  “Have you gone back and looked around the area where I told you Bothwick went riding?” Burke asked.

  “We checked into it and found nothing. Now, Seῆor Burke, I must go. I’m helping provide security at the special sponsors’ tent.”

  And Ochoa ended the call.

  Burke knew he wasn’t the only one who thought Colin Bothwick had been murdered.

  Chapter 9

  The sponsors’ tent was jammed when Burke entered. Most people were checking out the buffet tables. Feeling hungry, Burke joined them, grabbing a plate and piling several tapas on it. He took one bite of a piece of toasted baquette topped with a slice of ham, one egg and a sprinkling of some spices. The taste was explosive.

  “It’s the seasoning, you know, Seῆor Burke,” came a nearby voice.

  Burke thought he recognized the smooth Spanish accent. Turning, he saw it belonged to José López, the 70ish gentleman he’d chatted with the night before at the Templar castle.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Seῆor López,” Burke said shaking hands with the older man.

  “And you as well. I see you’re enjoying some of our tapas.”

  “This is my first and it’s delicious. It has a lot more taste than I would have guessed.”

  “My partner in the catering firm is Chef Andres and he’s a big believer in adding extra flavour.”

  “I can’t place the dominant seasoning in this tapa, though,” Burke said, studying what was left of his baquette.

  “It’s saffron.”

  “Really? I thought it was only used for paella and a couple of other rice dishes,” said Burke who was hardly an expert on culinary matters but had some knowledge thanks to Hélène’s coaching.

  “It usually is, but Chef Andres likes to add saffron to some other dishes and tapas. Few other chefs would do it, though, especially since saffron is the world’s most expensive spice. It costs more, but I don’t complain to the chef. We’re doing well enough.”

  Burke knew about the price of saffron because Hélène frequently mentioned she’d like to use more of it, but it was too expensive and difficult to obtain.

  “You enjoy good food, Seῆor,” Burke said.

  “I do,” López said. “But I never make any suggestions to Chef Andres. He’s a culinary artist of the first rank.”

  “Where is the chef?”

  “Working in the back, but he’ll be out soon. Andres enjoys mingling with people who tell him how great he is.”

  Burke saw a sly smile on López ‘s face. It seemed the older man didn’t mind being partners with the celebrated chef, but wasn’t impressed by Andres’ ego.

  Then Burke thought about his friend Claude back in southern France who would enjoy being there with him. Claude, who was also Hélène’s uncle, operated a successful catering firm out of Nice. He was also a superb culinary talent and always interested in exchanging ideas with another professional chef.

  “It would be interesting to talk with Chef Andres,” Burke said.

  “If I see him, I’ll introduce you to him,” López said. “Now, tell me who is going to win today’s stage?”

  “Good question,” Burke said. “It will end in a bunch sprint.”

  “Of course.”

  “There are a lot of good sprinter
s, but if I was to choose one, I’d go with Giancarlo Mantello, the Italian. He’s shown some very good form.”

  “I agree. He’s my pick as well.”

  Burke nodded.

  “I should mention, Seῆor Burke, that I am sorry to hear about the tragic death of your colleague Colin Bothwick,” the older man said. “I just read about what happened.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It had to be a terrible surprise. He goes out for a leisurely ride and ends up being run over.”

  Burke nodded. He couldn’t add anything to what López had said.

  “I hope the police find who hit him,” López added.

  “I do, too.”

  “Anyway, I know you have limited time and so I’ll wish you a successful telecast today, Seῆor Burke.”

  The two men shook hands once more and López drifted off. Burke finished his tapas and started toward the exit. Before he reached it, Nico Menard showed up and pulled him aside.

  “Paul, we need to go to the booth. Suzanne wants us there early. She’s decided to put together a short spot on Colin Bothwick since the media are giving his death more coverage than expected. She wants us to provide some commentary.”

  Burke nodded.

  Colin Bothwick was gone. But he hadn’t left them.

  Chapter 10

  Burke’s broadcast booth was one of two dozen located side by side on a main street that had been cordoned off. The booth was about the size of a small bedroom and crammed with a television camera pointed at the announcers’ chairs, two TV monitors, three laptops, two piles of papers devoted to analysis of the competing teams and one young, slender, neatly dressed statistician by the name of Jules Tessier. When Burke and Menard entered the booth, Menard made the introductions. Tessier shook hands with Burke, mumbled “Hello” and then returned to his laptop in the corner.

  “Jules is the quiet sort,” Menard whispered to Burke.