Silenced in Spain

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  Godard turned toward her intern. “Monique, I want you to keep track of any media coverage of the two deaths and I also want you to do hourly checks on what might be happening on social media about Bothwick and the truck driver, OK?”

  Chan nodded and tapped away on her tablet.

  “Now, Paul, you’ve been quiet,” Godard said. “Any thoughts?”

  “Nico, you and the big bosses seem to have everything under control.”

  Godard took a sip of her coffee and smiled but without any humor in her eyes. “Thanks, but I still expect you have some ideas, so please tell me.”

  “Suzanne, I’m no expert in the media. I’m just a blogger.”

  “And a panelist on a TV show. So, you must have something to offer.”

  Burke could see Godard wasn’t going to relent.

  “I agree we don’t sensationalize what’s happened,” he said. “We just give the audience the facts, mention how sorry we are about the loss of Bothwick – and probably the truck driver as well – and get back to the business of covering the race. If other media outlets or people on social media want to make a bigger deal of events, that’s their decision.”

  Godard nodded. Then she looked at Menard, Chan and Tessier. “Would you please leave Paul and me alone for a few minutes?”

  Burke was surprised. What did she want to discuss? His on-air efforts? He didn’t have any idea. But Menard and Chan didn’t protest and left the room with Menard raising an eyebrow at Burke as he closed the door behind him.

  When they were gone, Godard studied something on her notepad. After a half minute, she looked up at Burke. She might have been tired, but her eyes showed a fierce intelligence and plenty of determination.

  “I know about you, Paul,” she began. “I know about your past, what you’ve accomplished in the media, but also what you’ve done away from your blogs, columns and panel show.”

  Burke had an idea what she was alluding to, but he kept quiet.

  “I noticed you seemed slightly preoccupied with the death of the truck driver, almost like you think there’s more there than the driver made a mistake and died in a fatal crash.”

  Burke waited a few seconds and then said, “It just struck me as odd.”

  “What did?”

  “Why he went that way. Supposedly, he took a poorly lit country road to save a few kilometres and get to Tarragona faster. But there was no way he could drive with speed. I’d wager he couldn’t go much faster than 80 on several stretches of the road and that meant he’d probably end up taking longer to reach Tarragona. Since he was supposedly a regional driver, you’d think he’d know that.”

  “So, why do you think he did that?”

  Burke couldn’t see how this discussion had anything to do with the network’s coverage of the Vuelta, but there was no doubt that Godard wanted to talk about the truck driver’s accident and what it might mean.

  “I’m not sure how you think this relates to our TV coverage,” Burke said.

  “Let me decide that, Paul. Now, tell me why you think the driver took that country road.”

  Burke paused for a few seconds and then said, “He didn’t do it to save time. He did it because someone forced him to.”

  “You mean ordered him to?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe someone physically forced him to take that route.”

  “And as a result, he had an accident and died, right?” Godard said.

  “If it was an accident.”

  Burke didn’t think Godard looked surprised by his last comment. In a way, it seemed like she had been anticipating it.

  “So, you’re thinking someone might have killed him.”

  “I’m just saying a random accident doesn’t fit the facts.”

  Godard said nothing for a few seconds. Then she stood. “We need to talk more about this, Paul. Let’s do it after today’s stage.”

  “OK, if that’s what you want.”

  “Have you talked to anyone else about your ideas about the truck driver?”

  “No.”

  “Keep it that way.”

  And then she marched out of the meeting room, leaving Burke to ponder what had really happened on that quiet country road where the truck driver died.

  Chapter 16

  Burke expected that day’s stage of the Vuelta would end in another bunch sprint and he was right. And when several riders collided at high speed near the finish line, Burke wasn’t entirely surprised by that either. The sprinters in the Vuelta had too often been overly aggressive in their desire for victory. And, quick and vigilant as ever, Jules Tessier provided a statistic which said this was already the most crash-marred Vuelta in a decade.

  As he and Nico Menard reviewed the carnage near the finish line, Burke couldn’t help thinking this was a Vuelta that a lot of people were going to remember for a long time – and not for the best of reasons.

  When they signed off, Menard sat back and sighed heavily.

  “Tired, Nico?” Burke asked.

  “The older I get, the tougher it gets to cover these big races. I’m glad tomorrow is a rest day and we don’t have to do anything except get to Girona.”

  They were interrupted by Monique Chan entering the booth.

  “We’ve got a change of plans,” she said. “Madame Godard and I will be taking the Mercedes SUV that brought you. The three of you will go by a rental car, but don’t worry, it’s a nice vehicle and there’ll be a rack for your bike, Paul. You can pick it up at your hotel here. The keys are at the front desk.”

  Burke glanced at Menard who shrugged.

  “You know this region, Paul, so you can drive,” Chan said. “After that, everything’s the same. You’ll stay in your downtown Girona hotel and the following day cover the race. After that, Nico and Jules will continue to the next stage where they’d be working with a new guest commentator while Paul returns home to Villeneuve-Loubet. Everything sound good?”

  Although curious as to why the switch in vehicles, Burke was fine with the plan. He knew the route which took in a series of resort communities before skirting Barcelona and going inland to Girona. It would be a busy drive, but also a pretty one. And it would end in one of Burke’s favourite cities.

  Split by the River Onyar, Girona was an appealing blend of the modern and the ancient. Burke especially loved the Old Town with its narrow, twisting lanes, its majestic cathedral and its fortress walls. If he had to live in Spain, Girona would be the place, even though these days it was caught in the middle of the Catalan political turmoil with demonstrations for both independence and loyalty to Spain.

  “Since we don’t have to be there until late afternoon, let’s sleep in,” Menard said.

  Burke studied his colleague and saw the bags under the older man’s eyes. Menard was late 50s and fit looking, but Burke knew the toll the Vuelta took on everyone associated with it, not just the riders. There were long days and short nights. And the pressure of always being prepared never stopped.

  When he looked at Tessier, the young man shrugged. “I’m fine with that,” Tessier said. “I have a little homework to do to get ready for the Girona stage.”

  It was the most Burke had ever heard the statistician say in one burst.

  Burke agreed to a late-morning start, but he didn’t intend to sleep in. He had something he wanted to check out first.

  With their departure time settled, they trooped off to Suzanne Godard’s standard post-race meeting to review how coverage of the race had gone. She didn’t use much time, complimenting Burke and Menard for their work. She also praised Tessier for producing some informative numbers which made the young man blush. Burke thought Tessier wasn’t someone used to hearing compliments.

  The meeting ended and Godard and Monique Chan disappeared with Menard, who said he wanted an early night, right on their heels. When Tessier started to leave, Burke stopped him.

  “Jules, can I borrow you for a few minutes?” Burke asked.

&nbs
p; Tessier met Burke’s gaze and shrugged. “Sure.”

  “You’re the whiz with stats, Jules, and I’m hoping you can check something for me,” Burke said.

  “For the Girona stage?”

  “No, nothing to do with cycling. Which means you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

  “What do you want?”

  Burke told him. Tessier didn’t say anything for several seconds and then he nodded. “I can do that,” he said. “I might need an hour, but no more. I have one question, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why?”

  Burke told him.

  “OK, I’m fine with that,” Tessier said. “One hour back here?”

  “Let’s meet at the café across the street.”

  Tessier smiled. “I understand. Just co-workers sharing a drink.”

  Burke thought Tessier was catching on.

  Chapter 17

  Tessier stayed and started working on his laptop while Burke returned to his hotel room, pulled out his phone and punched in a number.

  “Officer Mateo Ochoa here,” came the familiar growl.

  “It’s Paul Burke. I’ve been wondering if … ”

  Ochoa interrupted him, saying, “… if we’ve found anything about Colin Bothwick’s death.”

  “Yes,” Burke said, surprised by the flic’s guess. “And have you?”

  “Is this for the media? Because if it is, I can’t say anything. Inspector Chávez is handling that job.”

  “No, it’s just for me.”

  There was a lengthy pause at the other end of the line and Burke thought Ochoa was weighing whether to say anything. Finally, Ochoa spoke: “Why are you so interested, Seῆor Burke?”

  “I’ve known – I knew – Bothwick for years. We had a past. And I was riding with him not long before he was run over. So, I feel like I need to know what happened to him.”

  Ochoa paused again. The seconds ticked by. Finally, the officer spoke, “We haven’t arrested anyone, but we’re still investigating.”

  This time it was Burke who paused, wondering if he was just wasting his time and Ochoa’s by pursuing the conversation.

  He decided to detour his questions. “Did you hear about the Vuelta truck driver who died in a crash in the Delta on the way to Tarragona?”

  “Seῆor Burke, are you a conspiracy theorist?”

  “No, not at all,” Burke replied, feeling that maybe he came across as one. “But don’t you think it odd the Vuelta has had two traffic-related deaths within a couple of days and in areas where not much happens?”

  “So, you are a conspiracy theorist.”

  Burke wasn’t interested in debating the point. “Has your police department been in contact with the police in the Delta about the truck accident?”

  “Goodbye, Seῆor Burke,” Ochoa said and ended the call.

  Burke thought that was likely his last conversation with Ochoa. But he understood one point – Ochoa hadn’t denied Burke’s notion about the two police departments liaising over the death of the truck driver.

  And if the two forces were in contact, that meant they saw a potential link between the two deaths.

  Burke stretched out on his bed and looked out the window at the blue sky. He reviewed what he knew about Bothwick and the truck driver, but could produce no good reason how and why they might be connected. But he believed they were.

  Finally, Burke gave up and went to the café to meet Jules Tessier. He was there before Tessier and ordered an Estrella Damm beer. It came chilled which was a good thing on a day when the temperature was still in the low 30s. He took a sip, closed his eyes and tried to relax. It didn’t work, though. The beer was good, but his brain was too busy for him to feel comfortable.

  Tessier showed up right on time, carrying a black messenger’s bag. He said hello, sat and hauled out his laptop. The computer was already on and Tessier turned the laptop so Burke could see the screen.

  “I took these numbers off a government website,” Tessier said, pointing to a spreadsheet with a series of figures.

  Burke needed a few moments to see what was before him. Then he understood. The spreadsheet indicated the occupancy rate for various developments. He looked closer and saw the previous year’s rate for the deserted Oropesa area he and Bothwick had cycled through a few days before. In January, the rate was one per cent. In March, it was three per cent. In May, it moved to five per cent. In July and August, the busiest months, the rate topped out at 10 per cent. Then it started dropping again.

  Burke noticed there were almost 15,000 condo units in the development, a massive number for a small community. It showed how optimistic the developers had been, but it also made Burke wonder how many developers had been forced into bankruptcy because of abysmal sales numbers.

  “It’s a wasteland,” Tessier said. “Even in high season, it’s incredibly quiet.”

  “Good work, Jules. Now, did you find anything about that other matter?”

  Tessier smiled and nodded, maximizing a new spreadsheet on the screen. Burke thought the young man was pleased with himself.

  “Catering the various Vuelta events is a big deal, it seems,” Tessier said. “For last year’s race, the total amount billed by a half dozen different caterers was more than 3.5 million euros.”

  Burke didn’t know what he had expected, but he was impressed by such a total. “Is that the usual figure?” he asked.

  Tessier pointed at a column of figures going down the screen. “A couple of other years, it reached almost four million. The lowest in the last decade was 2.5 million euros. The average is about three million.”

  “That’s impressive work, Jules,” Burke said, meaning it. He knew he couldn’t have produced such results if he’d been given a week. “How did you do it so fast?”

  “You just have to know where to look,” Tessier said.

  “Well, I’m glad you know what to do. Thank you.”

  “Do you want to hear something odd?”

  “You have more?”

  “During the last decade, the companies doing the catering have always been the same – with one exception. CA Specialty Catering came on board three years ago, replacing a bigger company based out of Málaga. And in case you’re wondering, CA’s slice of the pie has increased significantly. Last year, it billed almost 35 per cent of the overall amount.”

  “Where is CA based out of?”

  “Valencia. And do you want to know what the CA stands for?”

  Burke could see the young man was enjoying himself, spinning out stats and working on Burke’s curiosity. The more Tessier talked, the more Burke liked him.

  And then he knew what CA stood for.

  “Chef Andres, right?”

  “Correct, Monsieur Burke.”

  “Please call me, Paul. I’m not your boss and, even if I was, I wouldn’t be Monsieur to you. Thanks for all this.”

  “I’m still not finished … Paul.”

  “You have something else? How did you find the time?”

  “I was curious to see how much Chef Andres is involved in the company and I discovered he’s more than a figurehead. But he’s not the one with the real money. Unfortunately, I didn’t have enough time to find out who the big supporters are. I probably need another hour or two for that.”

  Burke looked at the young man and realized Tessier was invariably the smartest person in every room he was in. It was just that he was painfully shy and unwilling to exert his intellect.

  Tessier added: “If you’d like, I could check into who the real backers are.”

  “Jules, you’ve done enough for me,” said Burke, knowing he had the identity of at least one other supporter or partner of CA Specialty Catering ‒ José Antonio López.

  “It’s been fun. You see, Paul, I love statistics and obscure facts, the way they can link and tell stories. I don’t particularly like cycling, but working for the network on a contract basis
during the various races pays the bills. So, if you’re OK with it, I’d like to poke around some more into CA Specialty Catering.”

  Surprised by Tessier’s verbal outburst, Burke smiled. “You have my permission.”

  Tessier nodded. He was having a good day, Burke thought.

  They chatted a while longer, Burke over a second beer and Tessier over a glass of red wine. When Burke asked about Tessier’s background, the younger man withdrew, almost physically, and so Burke moved back to discussion of the Vuelta and what they’d encountered. Tessier was instantly more comfortable.

  They were discussing the number of crashes at the race – Tessier said he was going to provide some stats for the next stage about that topic – when Nico Menard walked over.

  “I changed my mind about an early night,” Menard said. “I left the hotel for a stroll and spotted you over here. I hope you don’t mind if I join you.”

  “The more the merrier,” Burke said.

  Menard ordered a glass of white wine and asked what the topic du jour was.

  “Crashes,” Burke said.

  With Burke’s encouragement, Tessier once again opened up, discussing various stats about the race. Menard praised his assistant’s efforts and soon the three of them were sharing a few laughs.

  They stayed around longer and had some tapas since there was no event planned for that night that Menard and Burke had to attend. At 9 as the dinner crowd began showing up, they decided to end the evening.

  “So, we’ll leave for Girona around 2 tomorrow?” suggested Menard. “We can check out and have some lunch before we go.”

  Burke and Tessier agreed.

  “And here are the keys to the rental,” Menard said, tossing them to Burke. “I stopped at the hotel’s front desk and collected them for you, Paul. It’s a Ford Focus parked in the hotel lot, section C. It’s a new model and dark blue. Not a Mercedes but it’ll do.”

  And then Burke had a brainwave.

  “Do you mind if I take our rental for an early morning spin?” he asked. “I’ll be back by noon.”

  “Where are you going, Paul?” Menard said.

  “Just down the coast a bit.”