Silenced in Spain

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  It was Bryan Watson and the Englishman stuck out his hand which Burke shook. Burke then shook hands with his wife.

  “Please call me, Paul,” Burke said.

  “And we’re Maggie and Bryan,” Maggie Watson said.

  “By your smiles, you seem to be enjoying the evening as well,” Burke said.

  “It would be hard not to,” Bryan replied. “The organizers have done a brilliant job. And to have Chef Andres catering the event is a real coup indeed.”

  “You’re familiar with him?”

  “We’ve read his books and visited his restaurants on other trips to Spain. We’ve also seen him on TV. A culinary genius.”

  “We’re hoping to meet him,” Maggie added. “We love to cook and he’s as good as it gets.”

  Burke asked what they did back in England.

  “Bryan is an investment banker, while I’m a semi-retired architect.”

  “And you’re both cycling fans?” Burke said.

  “Not as much as some people we’re traveling with, but, yes, we enjoy the sport and do some riding back home,” Bryan said.

  They were interrupted when the emcee, who was a well-known theatre impresario in the region, strolled onto the stage and took control of the evening, telling everyone they were in for a spectacular meal, courtesy of Chef Andres Calderόn and his staff. Then he called out Chef Andres, who walked onto the stage, waving his arms, bowing and generally looking like he adored the thunderous applause that greeted him. Burke looked around and sensed many in the crowd were awed by his presence.

  Burke didn’t have a strong picture in his mind of what a culinary star should look like, but Chef Andres wasn’t it. He looked like a basketball player, very tall and gangly, all arms and legs. He was maybe 40 with flowing black hair that touched his shoulders. He was dressed in a creased white top and black trousers which accentuated his physical stature. At first glance, he looked like a dressed-up spider, but he moved with grace, almost like he was a dancer.

  And when he took over the microphone to thank the crowd, he sounded like a trained stage actor. His voice was deep and booming, and Burke thought he really didn’t need a sound system to reach everyone in the amphitheatre. Chef Andres was obviously brilliant in the kitchen, but he was also highly skilled in front of an audience as he charmed the crowd, telling a couple of humorous anecdotes about strange places he had worked and promising everyone a meal they wouldn’t forget. When he finished, the crowd applauded with enthusiasm.

  “He’s impressive,” came a familiar voice beside Burke.

  It belonged to Tim Fritz who nodded toward the stage. Once again, he was dressed like he’d stepped out of a golf fashion magazine with black loafers, grey trousers and a purple sports jacket that looked to Burke like it probably cost a couple of thousand euros. His wife Wendy Klassen, less eye-catching in black slacks and a black, sleeveless blouse, was watching Chef Andres with interest.

  “He could make a living as a public speaker,” Burke said.

  “That’s why he has a popular TV show.”

  “He does?”

  “You didn’t know? Chef Andres is a big deal on TV here in Spain. His show has been running for several years and it’s very popular. He’s quickly becoming a household name. And he and I just agreed he’d write an occasional guest column for some of my lifestyle magazines.”

  When Burke had been in Spain, he’d spent most of his time watching the news or a channel that offered nothing but old American western movies. But given what he was seeing, Burke wasn’t surprised about Chef Andres’ gig as a TV show host. The man oozed charisma.

  As Chef Andres left the stage, the emcee told the gathering they should go to their tables because dinner would be served in 10 minutes. With such a famous chef in charge, the crowd didn’t waste time getting to their seats.

  Burke found himself at a table with Suzanne Godard, Tim Fritz, Wendy Klassen and some new faces ‒ a lawyer working for the Spanish Department of Sport, an executive with the national railway service Renfe, a retired politician who had helped bring the Vuelta to Tarragona, the owner of a bus-touring company, the head of a large accounting firm in Catalonia, and a real estate developer from Switzerland and his wife who were following the race for most of the stages. Burke thought it was definitely a high-powered group, except for himself.

  It also turned out to be a good group and Burke found himself conversing easily with everyone as they ate fideuà, a short-noodle version of paella and a dish celebrated for its spices. Sometimes the group spoke Spanish, occasionally French but mostly English since everyone was capable or better in the language.

  The topics changed rapidly and everyone participated with enthusiasm although Burke and Klassen were less vocal. When someone mentioned an ugly crash that had occurred during the Vuelta’s previous stage, Burke saw some of his tablemates shudder at the memory of two riders colliding and creating a domino-effect that left 20 riders scattered across the road and in a nearby ditch. Burke knew there had been broken bones.

  “I think the TV coverage of the accident was excessive,” Tim Fritz said, frowning. “Showing it once was more than enough, but to show it a half dozen times was grotesque.”

  Then he pointed to one of the huge TV screens erected in several corners of the amphitheatre. The screen was showing a replay of the day’s stage without sound and, as chance would have it, it displayed the crash they’d just been talking about.

  “See? Just like I said,” Fritz said. “They’re showing it again and again. Brutal, absolutely brutal.”

  And when the first cyclists started to ricochet into each other, Burke studied Fritz. The American looked displeased and even flinched slightly when several bodies were driven into a heap as others smashed into them. Burke glanced around and noticed most of the others grimacing or looking away, his boss among them.

  “It’s just so unnecessary,” Fritz continued, the disgust evident in his voice.

  Burke had the odd sensation that Fritz wasn’t disturbed so much by the broken bones and other injuries suffered by riders as by the inconvenience it had caused race officials and sponsors. Crashes were part of the sport, but it seemed Fritz thought this incident was unacceptable, a distraction that served no one well.

  Burke watched as Wendy Klassen, who had watched the crash without turning away, patted her husband’s hand, looked at the faces around the table watching them and said, “Tim is an alpha male, but not so keen on violence. I love NASCAR racing, but can’t get him to attend any of the races because of the possibility of a crash. He’d rather watch golf or tennis.”

  That got some polite laughter from others at the table. Fritz smiled, but Burke thought he looked annoyed.

  “I agree there was no need to see the crash as much as it was shown,” said Suzanne Godard. “However, in our defence, we don’t get a choice. We purchase the video feed and do the voiceover. If you were watching our coverage, you’d have heard our main announcer Nico Menard being critical of the video provider repeatedly showing the crash. Paul here was also vocal about it.”

  Burke shrugged. Menard had done most of the talking; he had just said he agreed.

  When the topic changed, Burke found himself chatting with the head of the accounting firm, Mariana Perez, who looked more like an athlete than a numbers cruncher. But, as he learned, that was because she was a competitive triathlete. Burke wondered how she managed the time to do both, but then recalled that these were people used to working hard to be successful and were experts at using their time effectively.

  And then Perez mentioned she’d heard about Burke’s involvement in solving various murders. As soon as she said that, Burke saw several heads turn his way.

  “I just happened to be in some places where something unusual happened,” he said.

  Perez smiled and wagged a finger. “You’re being far too modest, Seῇor Burke. I read stories about how much you helped. Very impressive, indeed. It’s not every bike racer-turn
ed-announcer who solves mysteries.”

  “I didn’t solve anything,” said Burke, aware that everyone around the table was listening. “I just happened to ask some questions that the police were interested in finding answers to. They did the real work, not me.”

  “I paid attention to those Tour de France murders you were connected to,” Fritz said. “You did more than ask questions.”

  “If anything, it seemed those Tour murders would not have been solved without your involvement,” Wendy Klassen added.

  Not eager to re-live those past events, Burke was about to change the subject when the emcee took over the mic to make a few more announcements, one of which was that the band would start to play in 30 minutes.

  Once the emcee was done, everyone chatted quietly among themselves as they finished their meal. Then an army of staff showed up and cleared away the tables. The music started and Burke saw it was the same band as had played in Peῆíscola. As guests got up to stretch their legs or get a drink or visit, Burke excused himself and found Nico Menard.

  “Feel like leaving soon, Nico?”

  Menard checked his watch. “It’s not too late, just 10, but we do have a long day tomorrow that starts early so I guess you’re right.”

  They turned and Burke saw Suzanne Godard coming over. She had seemed pleased back at the table, but now she looked perturbed.

  Godard stopped in front of the two men. “There’s been another accident involving the Vuelta.”

  “What’s happened?” Menard asked.

  Godard waved her phone at them. “I just found out one of the trucks hauling stuff for the Vuelta went off the road and into a canal. The driver drowned.”

  Burke was puzzled. He hadn’t seen any canals along the route from Peῆíscola. “Are you sure? The N-340 doesn’t go by any canals.”

  “That’s what I thought. It seems the driver took a shortcut through the marshlands back by the Ebro River, lost control and crashed into a canal.”

  “Bit odd to take that route,” said Burke. “The N-340 is a lot faster.”

  Godard frowned at Burke, her patience obviously wearing thin. “Regardless, we’re looking at the main Vuelta story becoming the deaths of two persons involved in the race.”

  “You’re right,” Menard said. “The race could become secondary.”

  “At our meeting tomorrow morning, we’ll discuss how we should handle this second death, but I wanted to give you a heads-up,” Godard said.

  Then she rushed off, Monique Chan falling in behind her as they excited the amphitheatre.

  “One murder and one accidental death,” Menard said to Burke. “This is getting to be one strange race.”

  Burke nodded, his thoughts consumed by why a professional driver would give up a highway route that he could do 120 km/h on for a narrow country road with a maximum speed of 80 and without much light. Besides that, Burke wasn’t convinced the “shortcut” was really any shorter. While it was scenic, a route through the Delta was hardly a time-saving way to go.

  Burke thought Menard was right.

  The Vuelta was definitely becoming a strange race.

  Chapter 14

  Menard and Burke were half way back to their hotel when someone called their names from behind. They stopped and saw José López approaching and, for an older man, he was covering ground quickly with a long-legged gait.

  “Like you gentlemen, I thought it was time to end the evening,” López said. “Tomorrow will be another busy day.”

  “Glad for the company,” Menard said. “It was another well-organized evening with a great meal.”

  “It was, but I think the fideuà was a little underwhelming, a little unusual.”

  Burke figured neither he nor Menard could tell good fideuà from bad. “What was different about it?” he asked.

  “Something with the spices,” López said. “It was delicious, but not quite to Chef Andres’ usual standard, I think.”

  They walked a few more steps in silence and then López said, “It was also time to go because people heard about the latest tragedy and wanted to talk about it and, to be frank, I didn’t want to hear any more about it.”

  Menard and Burke exchanged a look. “What tragedy?” Burke asked, believing he knew the answer.

  “You didn’t hear? One of the Vuelta catering trucks took a different route, crashed and the driver died.”

  Burke nodded. “We heard something bad had happened.”

  “You’ve both been involved in professional racing for many years. Do such tragedies happen often in big competitions like the Vuelta or the Tour de France?”

  “To be honest, sometimes there’s a fatality associated with a race,” Menard said. “During a recent Vuelta, one of the stages finished at the Angliru which may be the toughest climb in pro racing. After the race, one of the spectators, a young woman, rode her bike down the mountain, but she crashed and died.”

  López nodded. “I remember that. And now I recall that a Italian racer died a couple of decades ago in the Tour de France.”

  “There was also a Belgian who crashed into a wall in the Giro d’Italia and died on the spot. Wouter Weylandt,” Menard said.

  Burke interjected, “He was a very popular guy. And so was the Italian who passed away at the Tour – Fabio Casartelli. He was an Olympic gold medallist, too.”

  Menard wasn’t done. “Then there was the British champion Tom Simpson who died in 1967 during the stage finish on Mont Ventoux. And those are just the racers. In recent years, two boys were killed at different times when the media caravan went by. And some woman in her 60s was killed within the last decade by a police motorcycle when she tried crossing the road during a Tour stage.”

  “So, it’s not uncommon,” López said.

  “Sadly, no. It’s the nature of a high-risk sport and the fact that millions of people come out to watch the races,” Menard said.

  “But has anyone ever been murdered at one of the big races?”

  “I recall one cyclist, who was notoriously unpleasant, was murdered not long after a big race, but that was decades ago,” Menard said. “And then there was another cyclist, a popular Italian, who was murdered while out training.”

  “Who did it?” Burke asked.

  “No one knows,” Menard replied. “But as for being killed while a race is being held, I don’t know about that.”

  “I wonder if the media will make a big deal about what’s happening during this Vuelta,” López said.

  “That’s a question Paul and I are pondering, too,” Menard said. “There wasn’t much coverage when Colin Bothwick’s death was announced, but I expect that will change quickly when the media learn he was murdered.”

  “And having that truck driver die will probably get them even more interested,” López added.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Menard said.

  They walked in silence the rest of the way to their hotel. Back in his room, Burke was curious about something and so he turned on his laptop and accessed Google Earth. He punched in a general address and seconds later he was looking at the area where the truck driver had died.

  The road was double-lane, narrow and twisting. There were no overhead lights and part of the road didn’t even have line markings which would have made the driving even more challenging. Canals ran on both sides of the road for several kilometres. In short, it wasn’t a route a person would take to save time.

  He wondered about the driver’s identity. He checked mainstream media outlets online and saw just a brief mention about the fatality. A few reports said the driver was a male in his late 30s and a long-time employee of a regional transport company. His name wasn’t provided. Burke tried social media, but learned nothing more.

  He was puzzled.

  Why would an experienced driver take a rural, secondary route to save time when he knew the limitations of the road?

  It was almost like why would a former pro cyclist ride an expen
sive carbon-fibre bike on a rough, pothole-heavy track on his way to the main highway?

  Chapter 15

  Sipping an oversized cup of espresso, a tired-looking Suzanne Godard began her meeting the next morning by saying she’d already spent two hours talking to her bosses.

  “They’re concerned our coverage will be compromised by what’s happened, not just with the death of the driver, but especially with the announcement that the police consider Colin Bothwick’s death to be murder.”

  She paused to let that sink in. Burke glanced at Menard who was nibbling at a croissant and looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. When he turned toward Monique Chan, Burke thought the young woman was bracing herself for the challenges ahead. Then he looked at Jules Tessier, the stats expert, who sat in the corner, eyes studying his laptop screen. Burke thought it was almost like he wanted to be invisible.

  “We have to address what’s been happening without going into excessive detail and without removing the focus from our coverage of the Vuelta,” Godard continued. “I’d like to hear your ideas for doing so.”

  Burke didn’t have any suggestions and so he was glad when Menard, the veteran of 30 years at the mic, took control, saying, “We neither bury the stories nor amplify them. In our pre-race coverage, we mention there have been two unfortunate deaths associated with the Vuelta and that the regional police are investigating. Then we get back to telling the viewers what they can expect from the stage ending here in Tarragona. It might also be worth mentioning that occasionally fatal accidents occur at big races such as the Vuelta, the Tour de France and the Giro d’Italia. That way, what’s happened in the last couple of days won’t seem totally unusual.”

  Godard nodded. “Good. I agree. And it’s also what senior management is leaning toward. I’ll get back to them in a few minutes and I expect they’ll say we should proceed with that strategy. I should mention the two deaths are definitely going to get some play during our network’s evening newscast. It won’t be a long story, just a few seconds and then onto the next piece.”