Menard nodded. “You’re right, but my point is what can you do?”
“I don’t know. But I’m not sure the police are really looking into what happened with any enthusiasm.”
“And so it’s up to you to do their job?”
Burke felt his blood rush into his face. “I understand what you’re saying, Nico,” he said. “I just need to do something. I can’t let his death go without notice.”
Menard opened his hands in a helpless gesture. “Well, my only advice is be careful,” he said. “You don’t know who might be out there watching.”
“I will.”
“And don’t involve anyone else in your pursuits,” Menard added, glancing at Jules Tessier.
Burke understood. Menard thought Tessier was impressionable and could put himself at risk with some unwise decisions. Or by following Burke on one of his investigations.
“I have one question for you, Nico.”
“Ask it then.”
“Do you think there might be any link between what happened to Colin Bothwick and the death of that truck driver on the Delta?”
Menard sat back, his hands clasped on his stomach. “I have no proof and I lack your intuition for detecting the bizarre. But I’ll say that two deaths so close together and with some kind of similarity – both were traffic or transport related – has to make a person wonder.”
Burke nodded.
“As for the immediate future, I expect our visit to Girona will be a lot quieter,” Menard added.
Burke hoped his colleague was correct.
Chapter 21
Burke took the wheel for the trip to Girona. As soon as they reached the highway, they found themselves in a massive rush of vehicles heading northeast toward Barcelona. Besides regular traffic, it was obvious a lot of Vuelta trucks and cars were traveling at the same time. The Vuelta army was once again on the move.
Burke was happy to be driving. He was a terrible passenger and knew if either Menard or Tessier was behind the wheel, he’d be working on an ulcer.
“Isn’t that Chef Andres in the Mercedes sedan?” said Tessier from the back seat.
Burke looked to his left and saw a sleek, black sedan easing past him. And sure enough, he saw the celebrated chef in the back seat, looking relaxed and talking to someone beside him.
“That’s what happens when you become a culinary star,” Menard said.
Burke made a mental note to tell Hélène about Chef Andres. Maybe she’d heard about him since top chefs were international celebrities these days.
When they reached Barcelona, they skirted the north end of the city. If they weren’t in a rush, Burke would have driven into the heart of Barcelona and gone exploring on foot. Maybe when he was done with his Vuelta duties, he could spare a day to visit it. It was his second favourite European city after Paris and he loved its unique energy, its mixture of architectural styles, its fabulous variety of cafés and its people who somehow seemed outgoing and shy at the same time.
An hour after leaving Barcelona in the rearview mirror, they reached Girona. And as Burke weaved his way through traffic, he thought more and more how much he liked this corner of Spain. The Catalan people were passionate and enthusiastic, and the communities were always interesting, none more than Girona with its ancient Old Town.
Burke drove into the heart of the city, taking special care because of the countless cyclists riding everywhere in this bike-fanatic community. He, Menard and Tessier were staying with the other TV network people at a boutique hotel called The Bridges which overlooked the Onyar River that split Girona into halves. It wasn’t anything fancy, at least from the outside, but the location offered wonderful views of the winding river, the series of bridges crossing it, the Old Town and the cathedral which dominated the cityscape.
When they checked in, Burke was surprised to see that the owners had embraced an ultra-modern look in the hotel foyer with black-and-white metallic furniture, dangling lighting fixtures and a table that looked like it belonged to the 23rd century.
The staff at the oversized, shiny-black reception desk greeted them with enthusiasm and quickly sorted out rooms and keys. Burke, Menard and Tessier were allotted rooms on different floors but had views overlooking the river.
Before they separated, the three men agreed to meet for a drink before heading to the Vuelta’s reception that night which would be in the city hall building in the Old Town. Then Burke went to his room which had the same metallic, futuristic sense as the foyer. The bed was a double with a black, shiny duvet and black pillows, while the twin tables on both sides of the bed were metal and black with reed-like, silver lamps featuring super-small bulbs. A white plastic chair stood in one corner by a glass-topped, drawer-less desk. The bathroom was a blend of black and white tiles, overlapping mirrors and inset lights. He might be in Girona’s Old Town but he felt like he’d walked into the future. And so he pulled out his phone and shot some video of the room to show Hélène when he returned home.
After his video work, Burke pulled out his laptop and quickly got to work on a blog. He had a deadline in an hour and he hated missing a deadline. His editor, François Lemaire, was even more adamant about timeliness.
His topic was how professional cyclists had become reckless in pursuit of victory and he cited some of Tessier’s Vuelta crash stats as proof. When he was done that topic, he added a couple of sentences about Colin Bothwick’s death and how police were investigating it as a murder. He sent it off and sat back. He didn’t have another blog due for two days.
A minute later, Burke’s phone buzzed. He had a text. He figured he knew who it was from. And he was right. François Lemaire had read the part about Bothwick’s murder and wanted an update but not in two days. He wanted it by 9 p.m. Burke wasn’t surprised. When he’d encountered sudden death before, Lemaire had wanted him to focus on what had happened. It was good for readership.
And so Burke said he’d provide another blog that evening although he wasn’t sure if he could produce any fresh information.
He didn’t tell Lemaire about his concerns over the truck driver’s fatal accident. That matter required more thought.
Chapter 22
Burke, Tessier and Menard went for an early evening drink along Girona’s tree-shrouded La Rambla. The beautiful pedestrian boulevard was busy with shoppers, walkers and families enjoying a break, and the three broadcasters considered themselves fortunate to find a vacant outside table at a pleasant café. A few metres away were noisy tables of Guinness drinkers at an Irish pub, but Burke and his companions didn’t mind. Girona was filled with charm, regardless of the noise level.
And the neighbouring drinkers weren’t so bad, anyway. Burke overheard most of them talking in English about the upcoming Vuelta stage. The hot topic was who was going to win. There was no consensus, but they all seemed to enjoy the debate.
“So, after tomorrow, you’re done with us, Paul,” Menard said between sips of his white wine.
“I am. The morning after the stage, I fly out of here to Nice and then it’s back to my quiet, little village.”
“And you’re OK to leave everything that’s happened on the Vuelta behind you?”
Burke could see Menard wasn’t talking about the stage races. “Not much choice,” he replied. “It’s up to the various police departments to figure out what happened.”
“But do you trust they’ll find out who’s behind Bothwick’s death?”
Burke shrugged and took a sip of his beer.
“Is there any chance Madame Godard might ask you to stay around for another stage or two?” Tessier said.
“If she wanted me for more stages, I’m sure she would have asked by now,” Burke said. He turned toward Menard. “Who’s doing colour commentary with you after I’m gone, Nico? I’ve forgotten.”
“Maxime Gosselin.”
Burke wasn’t surprised. Gosselin belonged to the generation of racers after Burke, and had been retired only t
hree or four years. He’d been a decent pro, once winning a stage of the Vuelta during a horrendous rainstorm which prompted almost a quarter of the peloton to quit overnight with colds and flu bugs. Gosselin had a quick wit and a sharp sense of cycling tactics. And he’d done some commentating on races.
“Maxime will be excellent,” Burke said.
“Not better than you,” Tessier replied.
Burke smiled at the younger man. He could see that Tessier would miss him. In their half-day exploration of what had happened to Colin Bothwick, they’d made a connection. And when he thought about it, he’d miss Tessier, too.
“You know, Nico, young Jules here has more to offer than just statistics,” Burke told Menard.
The veteran broadcaster nodded and looked at Tessier. “I’ve been aware of that for some time, Paul,” he said. “And I think our Madame Godard has noticed that as well. I think the time is rapidly coming when we’ll need more from you, Jules.”
Burke saw Tessier blush. He really wasn’t used to praise, but Burke thought he deserved it.
“This is your first Vuelta, Jules, so tell me what’s impressed or surprised you the most?” Burke said.
Tessier thought for a few seconds and then said, “I used to think these Grand Tour races were like self-contained worlds, moving about in a secure routine of racing, tearing down, setting up, promoting and racing again. But they’re not. They’re vulnerable, naively so, to the outside world and to people and events which can shatter that sense of safety in a blink of an eye. So, in answer to your question, I’d say the false sense of security of the race organizers has surprised me the most.”
The comment wasn’t what Burke expected. And he noticed Menard thought the same.
“You’re talking about Colin Bothwick’s death, aren’t you?” Menard said.
“Yes, but it’s more than that. Look at the places where we’ve traveled in the last few hours, the places which were struck by terrorists not long ago. And then there’s that truck driver who died in an accident – if it was an accident – on the way to Tarragona. Television makes the Vuelta look magical and magnificent, but then there are all these other events you don’t see on the screen.”
Burke didn’t know what to say. But he didn’t disagree with Tessier.
“You know, Jules, I think you need to talk more,” Menard said. “You have interesting viewpoints. Maybe in the future, try not to blend into the scenery as much.”
Tessier smiled and then nodded.
“In fact, I toast you,” Menard added. “To Jules Tessier, deep thinker and I mean that in the most complimentary way.”
Burke raised his beer as did Tessier. They all drank.
“Gentlemen, what’s the occasion?”
Burke saw Suzanne Godard a step away. Beside her was Monique Chan. Both were in elegant, flowing pant suits featuring the corporate colours of the French TV network that employed them. The Guinness drinkers on the next terrace looked them over and gave their silent approval.
“We’re just celebrating Jules here,” Menard said.
Godard looked at Tessier and Burke could see she had respect for him, maybe even affection.
“I’m glad to see that,” Godard said. “We were just going to tonight’s function when we saw you here.”
“Will you join us for a drink?” Burke asked.
Godard nodded and pulled out a chair. Chan took one from a vacant table nearby and sat as well.
They discussed the Tarragona stage’s telecast and talked about the one coming up the next day in Girona. Godard was clearly pleased with the group’s efforts, praising each member in turn.
After they finished their drinks, they agreed it was time to attend the Vuelta soirée. They didn’t have far to go, just around the corner and 100 metres to the city hall which was in an ancient square.
They made their way into the square where Girona’s biggest and fanciest events were held. Burke had been there once for the annual Festival of Sant Joan, which celebrates the summer solstice in June, and it had been a fascinating time to visit the city, particularly on the evening when the organizers held their Castells, or human towers, competition. Burke had watched with fascination and some anxiety as teams of 50 members constructed a human tower with two girls not older than 10 or 11 at the apex. Once the children, who scrambled up like monkeys, reached the top, they descended with alarming speed and when Burke expressed his astonishment to a local standing beside him, the woman informed him that girls were usually selected for the top because they were more nimble and braver than boys of the same age.
There weren’t any Castells on the schedule tonight, but the square was still busy. While some of the people were walking home or attending to a little shopping, others were streaming toward the city hall entrance for the Vuelta event. There were also a few groups of people just hanging around and Burke had the sense they were waiting for something or someone. The bulk of them were in their 20s and carrying backpacks, but a few were older, in their 40s and 50s. They didn’t look dangerous, but Burke thought there was something odd about them.
As they walked toward the venue, Burke noticed a score of Catalan flags waving from various windows and balconies, an obvious show of support for the independence movement. He hoped Spain would work out its political crisis without violence, but it wouldn’t be easy. Emotions were running high and the political tension he’d felt upon his arrival in Spain seemed to be increasing.
He put aside thoughts of the Catalan conflict and looked at the people walking his way. Unlike the previous two events which had featured a casual, if stylish, vibe, most of the guests this time were dressed as if going to a major function. Burke felt underdressed and he could see Menard and Tessier had the same reaction. However, when he glanced again at Godard and Chan, he noticed they fit in with the crowd.
As they reached the entrance, Burke saw two vans ease into a lane a few metres away. They belonged to CA Specialty Catering and he saw four blue-uniformed workers quickly jump out of the vehicles, gather massive platters of food from the rear of the vans and head toward the side door. They were all large men and they moved quickly. The pressure was clearly on.
Burke detoured to watch the catering crew only to have one of the workers spot him. “Can I help you?” he called out to Burke. His tone of voice wasn’t friendly.
“No thanks, just wandering around before the event,” Burke said.
“The entrance is just to your right,” the worker called.
Burke nodded and starting walking away, looking into a window and seeing the reflection of the catering worker who was still watching him. When a second worker appeared, Burke saw the first employee point at Burke’s retreating figure and say something to his colleague. The two men were both frowning.
Burke joined the throng entering the venue which was a surprisingly large hall and decorated as if royalty was expected. He spotted his TV colleagues and joined them.
“Our table is in the far corner over there,” said Godard pointing. “But don’t go there yet. I want you mixing with people and promoting the hell out of our coverage, just like you did before.”
Burke did as ordered, slipping into one group after another, occasionally exchanging a few words but usually keeping quiet on the periphery.
He spotted Tessier a few groups away and, to his surprise, he saw the young man talking with enthusiasm about something, his hands waving about, and the half dozen people around him listening as if he was giving away state secrets.
What could Tessier be telling them that was so enthralling? Burke had no idea.
Burke looked around and saw Menard in the obvious throes of telling one of his colourful stories of past races. His audience seemed fascinated. The veteran broadcaster was in his element.
Burke slowly eased his way through the crowd, nodding here and there, saying hello to a few familiar faces, and then he went to the door nearest the kitchen. He peeked through the window of the door and saw
a staff of at least 30 working feverishly. It looked like chaos, but Burke expected it was routine for a large kitchen staff.
And then he saw Chef Andres talking to three of his chefs. There was no doubt who was the boss. Andres was speaking and using all kinds of gestures to punctuate his message. The three chefs didn’t say anything, just nodded. They didn’t look nervous, but neither did they appear happy.
Not for the first time, Burke thought he’d never want to work in a professional kitchen. Too much stress.
The evening began with speeches. The mayor made the longest one, emphasizing the city’s colourful past and prosperous present. She said the future looked even brighter.
Burke wasn’t sure about the last comment and, glancing around, he could see others frowning in disagreement. With the current political atmosphere being less than stable, these weren’t the best times for the region.
The mayor finished up by praising the Vuelta for coming to Girona.
Then it was time to eat.
Burke was at a table with strangers, but that was fine since everyone seemed friendly and willing to swap stories. They were especially eager to hear a Vuelta tale from Burke, a former competitor in the race.
It took a few moments before Burke could recall one that might satisfy the table. And so he told them about how three Andalusian horses found an escape route from their fenced field and joined the peloton for a couple of kilometres. The riders had been terrified by the sudden appearance of the large animals, but no one had collided. As for the horses, they had seemed eager for new company.
“They stayed with us for at least 300 metres,” Burke said. “They were beautiful animals. Two were grey and the other was a light brown which I gather is an unusual colour for the breed.”
One of Burke’s tablemates, a retired veterinarian who lived in the city, agreed on the physical elegance of the breed and did a quick routine on how Andalusians were used as war horses before becoming famed in current times for their skill in equestrian activities.
Burke didn’t mind the interruption. In fact, he enjoyed hearing someone with true knowledge provide the background on arguably the country’s most famous breed of horse.
Silenced in Spain Page 11
