Silenced in Spain

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  Like the other booths, theirs had an open window to the finish line 50 metres away but no air conditioning and Burke was soon dripping sweat.

  “The key is not to drink too much water, Paul,” Menard said when he saw his younger colleague reach for a second water bottle. “You can’t leave the booth for almost four hours so be careful with your fluids.”

  “It’s just so hot,” Burke complained.

  “Think of it as a good way to lose weight,” Menard said with a smile. “And then think how good that first beer will taste when you’re finished working.”

  Burke nodded, but he was still uncomfortably hot and he expected the booth was only going to get warmer as the afternoon went on. He wondered what the TV network’s policy was on working in the nude.

  They put their headsets on and Menard talked with Suzanne Godard about what she wanted. The conversation lasted five minutes and then Godard was satisfied they had a plan for the Bothwick spot. Burke, though, wasn’t confident they could get it done in time or he could handle his part so quickly. But he kept his doubts to himself.

  To his surprise, they finished the Bothwick story 10 minutes before the start of the telecast. Burke provided 30 seconds of commentary about Bothwick’s career and their shared experiences. He tried to be positive and not dwell on Bothwick rarely winning. Menard did most of the voiceover and he needed only one take which, given the time restraints, was invaluable. Burke’s respect for the veteran broadcaster increased.

  When the telecast began, Menard took control, easing Burke into analyzing the action, asking for some straightforward reaction before moving onto trickier, strategy-based queries. Burke was fine with progressing from the simple to the complex, and he began enjoying his time in the booth.

  However, when the race went through Benicàssim and into Oropesa, Burke’s attention wandered. He remembered his ride with Bothwick, where they’d cycled, what they’d seen and the moment that Bothwick took off on his fatal detour. What had happened? Burke couldn’t help thinking about it. And then he remembered the gun shots fired in his direction after that. He didn’t know what he’d stumbled into, but it wasn’t good.

  Then he felt an elbow nudge his arm. Menard motioned for him to re-focus. Burke nodded and started discussing the route taken by the peloton, which was the cycling term for the bulk of the riders, and how the racing would soon get tougher as they went through a mountain pass.

  During a commercial break, Menard covered his mic and asked if Burke was feeling all right.

  “Sorry about that,” Burke said. “I was just remembering Bothwick.”

  Menard nodded. “We’ll get through this,” he said.

  “I’m fine. No more distractions, Nico. I promise.”

  “That’s good,” interjected Suzanne Godard into their headphones. “We’re not far from the finish and we can’t afford you to drift, Paul.”

  “I understand.”

  The commercial break ended and Menard and Burke picked up the coverage. Burke put all his attention on the race and got a thumbs-up from Menard.

  The race finished with a sprint by the promenade in Peῆíscola. The crowd which numbered at least 25,000 cheered so loudly that Burke couldn’t hear himself talk. The Italian, Giancarlo Mantello, won by a metre.

  When the telecast was over, Menard smiled at Burke. “You did well, Paul.”

  “You’re being kind. If it wasn’t for you, I’d have sounded like I didn’t have a clue.”

  “It’ll be better tomorrow in Tarragona.”

  Burke removed his headphones and mic. He turned to Jules Tessier who had provided a steady stream of race-related stats to Burke’s computer, and he thanked the young man. Tessier met Burke’s gaze for a half second, mumbled “You’re welcome” and then returned his attention to his laptop screen.

  “Another stage in the bag,” said Nico Menard, patting Burke on the back. Menard then turned to Tessier. “Great work as always, Jules.”

  Tessier beamed and nodded almost like a bobble-head.

  “Let’s get the wrap-up done with Suzanne and then I’ll treat you to a well-deserved beer, Paul,” Menard said.

  “OK, but only if you let me buy the second,” Burke replied.

  They left the booth. Although there was a gentle breeze, it wasn’t any cooler outside. As they went down the steps of the platform and onto the sidewalk, Burke started to dream about how wonderful that first cold beer would taste.

  Then he spotted Monique Chan hurrying toward them and looking nervous. Had he made a mistake during the broadcast, something that Menard hadn’t noticed? He struggled to think that was the case. Menard would have noticed and rescued him.

  “Did you hear?” Chan said.

  “Hear what?” Menard said.

  “About Colin Bothwick.”

  “What about him?”

  “He didn’t die in an accident. He was murdered.”

  Chapter 11

  Burke looked at the young woman facing him, not thinking about the Vuelta stage that had just ended or how he’d performed as a commentator.

  “How do you know that?” he said.

  “A police officer came and talked to Madame Godard, and I was there,” Monique Chan said. “He said the investigation has taken a new turn.”

  “So, Bothwick’s death is no longer being considered an accident?” Burke said. He knew he’d heard her right, but he wanted confirmation nevertheless.

  “The flic said they’re considering Colin Bothwick’s death to be a murder.”

  Chan’s news told Burke he had been correct in believing Bothwick had been murdered. But he didn’t feel good about it. If anything, he felt worse. An accident was bad luck, bad karma, something unplanned. Murder was the worst kind of malevolence.

  Chan turned slightly and pointed. “There’s the officer who talked to us,” she said.

  Burke looked where she had pointed. The officer was Mateo Ochoa who was staring right back at him.

  “And he wants to talk to you, Paul,” Chan added.

  Ochoa waved for Burke to come over.

  “It looks like he wants to meet with you right now,” Menard said. “But why does he want to do that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Menard rubbed his chin. “Are you sure, Paul? If my memory serves me right, you’ve been involved in police investigations before.”

  “But not this time. I rode with Colin and then we split up. He died in a hit-and-run accident and I came here to Peῆíscola. That’s all I know.”

  “OK, but it’s still a little odd that a police officer wants to talk with you,” persisted Menard.

  “I better see what he wants,” Burke said, turning and leaving, glad to put Menard’s questions behind him.

  But what did Ochoa want?

  “Seῆor Burke, I only need a few minutes of your time,” the officer said, waving a hand toward his police car which was parked a few metres away on a sidewalk, thanks to all the other spots being taken by Vuelta vehicles.

  “Before I agree to go with you, can you tell me what this is all about?”

  “Did Seῆorita Chan tell you we no longer think your friend Colin Bothwick was killed in an accident?”

  “She said you’re calling his death a murder.”

  “That’s correct,” said Ochoa, nodding. “And since it is, we need to talk with you again.”

  Burke remained reluctant to get into the police vehicle. “Am I in trouble? Do I need a lawyer?” he asked.

  “Neither,” Ochoa replied. “We just want to see if there’s anything more you know that could be useful to us.”

  Burke thought about the request for a few moments. “Where do you want to go?”

  “The police station for a quick interview.”

  “Why not talk here?”

  “Too many people, too many distractions.”

  Burke nodded and went to the passenger’s side and got in. Ten minutes later, Ochoa was leading
him into the back entrance of the police station located downtown in a modern building devoid of any architectural interest. Once inside, they passed through a security door and Ochoa took Burke to a small windowless office.

  Burke had been through this routine before. But he didn’t feel good about it. If anything, he was anxious. He knew he shouldn’t be, but he didn’t entirely trust the police.

  Ochoa motioned for Burke to sit on a small metal chair while he sat behind a battered desk. Ochoa reached into a drawer and pulled out a notebook and a small tablet which he turned on. He then placed his smartphone on the desk to record the interview.

  Burke decided to assert himself. “Tell me, Officer, why did the police change their minds about what happened to Colin Bothwick?”

  “I am supposed to be the one asking the questions,” said Ochoa with a slight smile. “However, I’ll answer yours as a sign of good faith.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “I was given some freedom to return to the accident scene and look into what happened. My superiors were keen to find the hit-and-run driver.”

  “But they still thought it was an accident, right?”

  “Correct. And to some extent, so did I. However, I did as I was ordered and started interviewing locals in the area. We’d talked to most of the people who lived within a few hundred metres of the accident site, but had gotten nowhere. I decided to expand the investigation.”

  “And you found someone?”

  “I did. An old man who lives just over a kilometre away from where Seῆor Bothwick was killed. Seῆor Ignacio Sanchez is his name. Nice fellow, a little hard of hearing.”

  Burke wondered why Ochoa was mentioning the man’s personality and hearing issues, but he didn’t say anything, just waited.

  “Seῆor Sanchez, you see, is a lifelong smoker who lives with his daughter and her family, none of whom smoke,” Ochoa said. “And so, whenever he wants to smoke, Seῆor Sanchez goes outside and usually takes his little dog Pancho with him.”

  These were a lot of details, but Burke sensed the flic would soon be getting to the point.

  “So, late that afternoon, he went outside with Pancho, lit up and went for a stroll.”

  Burke could see where Ochoa was going.

  “He smoked one cigarette and then had a second and a third. He told me he sometimes gets a little tired of his grandkids’ noise even though he loves them.”

  “And Seῆor Sanchez saw something on his walk, right?” Burke said.

  Ochoa wasn’t annoyed by being interrupted. If anything, he looked pleased, smiling and nodding at Burke.

  “He did,” Ochoa said. “He got to within 30 metres of a certain dirt road. He could barely see anything through the olive trees, but he could hear something, despite his ears not working well.”

  “What did he hear?”

  “An engine revving high. And then he saw someone pass before him, but it wasn’t a car or truck.”

  Burke jumped in. “It was a man on a bicycle.”

  “Another good guess, Seῆor Burke. It was Colin Bothwick, by the old man’s description, pedaling as fast as he could and looking over his shoulder. Seconds later a white van charged by. Seῆor Sanchez said it seemed obvious the van was chasing the cyclist and gaining quickly even though the rider was going full out.”

  Burke asked what the old man did then.

  “He got to the intersection of his lane and the dirt road to see what was going to happen. But all he saw was the cyclist weaving as if trying to shake off the van which continued to close in on him.”

  “Did he see the van strike Bothwick?”

  “No, but he thinks he heard it or something that was unusual.”

  “And did he go down the road to check out what had happened?”

  “No. He says he was frightened. And, besides, it was too far for him to go. He had already walked enough and was starting to feel tired.”

  “Fair enough. But why didn’t he call the police?”

  Ochoa frowned. “He did. He talked to a traffic specialist who listened and then thanked him.”

  “Was it Inspector Chávez?”

  “He couldn’t remember the name, but it sounds like it might have been him.”

  “And Chávez chose not to dig further into what the old man said?”

  “I checked the inspector’s notes. He believes the old man is senile with only a slight grasp on reality.”

  “So, Inspector Chávez didn’t pursue it.”

  “Again, correct. But in the inspector’s defence, Seῆor Sanchez has a vivid imagination and a tendency to exaggerate. You see, I talked to him before on another matter when he was sure his neighbour was building a large military weapon. It turned out his neighbour was installing a computerized water pump for irrigating his fields.”

  “So, why did you believe him this time?”

  “I didn’t necessarily accept everything he said, but when I put it together with what you mentioned the other day, I thought I needed to look into the situation a little more.”

  “And you found something, right?”

  “Our traffic people only looked around the accident site and the 300 metres leading up the road. They did that because they figured it had to have been an accident. When I went back, I studied the road more than a kilometre from the site and noticed skid marks, not many, but enough to suggest the old man was telling the truth.”

  “Did you learn anything else from the tire marks?”

  “No. The tire marks were made by a generic thread, a little worn. A thousand vehicles in that immediate vicinity probably have the same tires. But I did notice something else – the vehicle didn’t swerve at all.”

  “I don’t understand,” Burke said. “You said you saw skid marks but no swerve marks. I don’t understand the difference.”

  “If I’d seen swerve marks which generally leave a clean trail, it would have indicated the vehicle was trying to miss the potholes. But, as I mentioned, there weren’t any. The driver didn’t care about the potholes. He just wanted to go as fast as possible in a straight-ahead direction. The skid marks, which are messier, came from hitting a nasty porthole and then the vehicle skidding sideways until the driver corrected the steering.”

  The light went on for Burke. “So the driver was in a rush or a panic.”

  Ochoa nodded. “No one in his or her rationale mind drives through bump after bump on a bad dirt road unless they have to. The driver was chasing someone and desperate to catch that person.”

  “And that person was Colin Bothwick.”

  “That’s it, Senor Burke. And now we have a murder investigation.”

  “Does that mean Inspector Chávez agrees?”

  “He does now. I took the information to him and also to my superintendent. The big boss saw the problem with the initial investigation and has ordered a new examination of the accident scene. He believes it’s a murder as do I. And now, it seems, so does Inspector Chávez.”

  “Are you in trouble with Chávez for going over his head?”

  “Nothing that I can’t handle. Besides, Chávez got a bonus out of it. He’s in charge of a murder investigation which is good for someone with ambition.”

  “As long as he solves it.”

  “And that brings me to why I want to talk with you, Seῆor Burke. I need you to review your ride from Benicàssim to Orposa to where Colin Bothwick turned off. This time, spare no detail. I want to hear everything you can recall.”

  Chapter 12

  For the next hour, Burke went through the last few kilometres he’d ridden with Bothwick. The details came back to him easily. Ochoa interrupted with a few questions, but generally stayed quiet and made notes, sometimes in his notebook and a few times on his tablet.

  When Burke was finished, he leaned back, tired from trying to remember everything he and Bothwick had discussed and seen. He also believed more than ever that his old rival had been killed on purpose, but he
still had no idea why. And when he looked at the police officer opposite him, he could see Ochoa was equally puzzled.

  But at least the local police were interested. Finally.

  “So what’s next?” Burke asked.

  “For you? Nothing. You just go on your way to Tarragona, and leave what happened to Colin Bothwick to us,” Ochoa said as he put away his interviewing tools.

  Burke didn’t argue.

  Five minutes later, standing outside the police station, Burke checked his phone. He had a text from Suzanne Godard saying she wanted to meet with him as soon as he was done with the police. She added her TV crew would be moving onto Tarragona that evening.

  Burke replied he’d be at her hotel in 15 minutes.

  He opted against catching a taxi. With thousands of people moving about, it would be next to impossible to find one nearby. So he began walking. He didn’t have far to go and he wanted to process what he and Ochoa had discussed even though he wasn’t supposed to be involved anymore in Colin Bothwick’s death.

  Burke soon discovered he couldn’t move quickly. Downtown traffic was bumper to bumper and throngs of people were strolling the sidewalks and the sides of streets, chatting and laughing in a post-race euphoria. He’d seen that before. A race would end with such excitement that the crowd needed time to lose its collective buzz. For most people in Peῆíscola, the Vuelta stage was probably their first exposure to high-end racing and they’d likely been shocked at the speed of the cyclists and how dangerous it had been.

  Burke tried to relax as he walked. He smiled at others, felt the late-afternoon warmth of the sun, enjoyed the view of the beach and marveled at the languid, turquoise Mediterranean Sea.

  But he couldn’t relax.

  Colin Bothwick was still haunting him.

  When he reached Godard’s hotel, he saw her waiting for him in the foyer.

  “I thought you said 15 minutes,” Godard said. She tapped her watch. “It’s been almost 25. Anyway, how was your interview with the police? Do they need more of your time?”

  Burke smiled to himself. Suzanne Godard was always on the job and he hoped her bosses appreciated her single-minded focus.