Silenced in Spain

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  “But it was clearly a suicide. And that means the police won’t be looking beyond that as a cause of death.”

  “Good point and that’s bothered me. But I think Seῇor López was more calculating than that. Despite his belief that some flics could be corrupt, he saw the police, the good ones, pursuing the food-fraud people if given enough information. And I think he did that, collecting evidence against the people threatening him and sending it to the police.”

  “So why didn’t he just provide the evidence and forget about blowing his brains out?” Godard asked.

  “He couldn’t be sure the police would be determined enough or fast enough to arrest all the food-fraud people. And that would still leave his family at risk. So, to him, suicide had to be part of the equation.”

  “What a price to pay,” Godard said.

  “I think Seῇor López considered it a fair exchange if it worked. And I have a feeling he was happy to go, to be with his wife again.”

  “But is his plan going to work?” Godard said.

  “Good question,” Burke replied.

  Chapter 49

  Moments later, Burke felt his phone buzz, indicating a text. He saw it was from Inspector Torres and she wanted him to come to the local police station within the next hour, but she didn’t say why. It was after 10 p.m. but that seemed of little concern to the flic.

  Burke frowned, having gone this route before with other police probing him for what he knew. Besides that, he was mentally and emotionally exhausted. In the last week, a colleague had been murdered, there had been two attempts on his life, rioting had occurred in one of his favourite cities, an acquaintance had committed suicide in a public way and the police had involved him in an investigation that was expanding by the hour. He just wanted to go home.

  “Trouble?” Godard asked.

  Burke told her about the request from Torres.

  “I’ll go with you,” Godard said. “Just in case they get a little pushy. And if they do, we’ll get you a lawyer, a good one.”

  Burke appreciated the gesture and told her so. He doubted he was in any legal peril although talking with the police never made him feel comfortable. When he considered what was happening, he expected Torres hoped he’d be able to fill in a couple of blanks in her investigation.

  For his part, despite his exhaustion, Burke wanted to know if López had indeed supplied the police with incriminating evidence against Chef Andres, Tim Fritz and maybe others. He was curious for his own peace of mind although he thought he might also work the entire story into a couple of blogs for his boss back home on the French Riviera.

  Burke texted Torres he’d be there within a half hour.

  And he was.

  However, the police weren’t interested in Godard being involved and a uniformed officer told her to wait in the building’s foyer or go someplace else.

  “I’ll be right here when you’re finished, Paul,” she said, motioning to a chair in a corner of the foyer. Burke nodded.

  The officer led Burke to a windowless interview room where he was told to sit on one side of a long table. Opposite him were Torres, Sgt. Martἱn, an Interpol agent named Flores, a uniformed officer pecking away at a computer in the corner – and Mateo Ochoa, the Peῇíscola flic who’d been intrigued by Bothwick’s death right from the start. Burke felt uneasy. And vulnerable. Maybe he was in trouble.

  “Nice to see you again, Officer Ochoa,” said Burke, trying to sound calm and confident.

  Ochoa nodded, looking businesslike. He was the small-town cop in the group, but didn’t seem overwhelmed. And then Burke recalled he’d been a detective in Madrid, the real deal.

  “We have a few questions we need to clear up, Seῇor Burke,” Torres said in Spanish. “We’ll be recording the interview, but you have nothing to fear. It’s just for clarity.”

  Burke said “OK” and watched as she pushed a key on her laptop and an image appeared on the smartboard facing the end of the table. Burke looked and saw it was a document listing what appeared to be several companies.

  In the past, Burke had always waited for the interviewer to begin, but not this time. He wanted to make a statement right from the start, if only to show he wasn’t going to be intimidated in any fashion even though his nerves were tingling.

  “Is that list part of the evidence José López recently provided you?” he asked.

  Burke knew it was risky to pose such a question. If there was no evidence, he’d have to explain why he’d asked such a question and his logic might not be strong enough to convince them he was just a curious bystander. If there was evidence, he’d probably have to explain how he had that information and that might be equally tricky.

  Besides being nervous, Burke was starting to feel annoyed. He didn’t like the inquisition he was facing despite Torres saying he had nothing to fear. Five to one wasn’t right. And he was ticked the flics kept demanding he talk to them or assist them in some plot.

  “What evidence are you referring to, Seῇor Burke?” Torres said.

  Burke had anticipated this question on the trip to the police station, coming up with a straightforward explanation about why it made sense to say López had provided information to the police. As he gave his theory, he noticed no one seemed surprised. And that surprised him.

  When he was done, Torres turned to the Interpol agent Flores and said, “See what I mean?”

  Flores nodded in response.

  The flics’ reaction told Burke he’d been right with his assumptions. “So, López did incriminate Chef Andres and others in the whole mess.”

  Torres ignored Burke’s comment. “Now, Seῇor Burke, please take us through your involvement with Seῇor López tonight. Leave nothing out.”

  “I’ve been through this with you,” Burke said. “I thought you had other matters to discuss.”

  “Let’s do it again anyway,” Torres said.

  Burke shook his head and then described what he and Tessier had seen and discussed with the elderly Spaniard. Torres interrupted the tale a few times with questions, most of them for details about who saw them go upstairs, what López said during his tour of Dalí’s moustache exhibit, and what he’d said and done when the tour was over.

  “By the way, we’ll also be interviewing Seῇor Tessier as you might expect,” Torres said.

  Burke nodded.

  She tapped on her laptop and another document showed up on the smartboard. This time, the information featured several names listed in different sections.

  Burke saw a column with Negative Contact at the top. Right below that was his name. Accompanying his name was a date and time.

  It took a few moments before Burke understood the date and time referred to when he’d been at the Vuelta event at the Peῇíscola castle. However, he was still puzzled because he’d spent the evening making small talk with strangers, eating and listening to speakers. What was ‘negative’ about that?

  He scanned the board and saw another column title – Deceased. Below it was the name Colin Bothwick. And beside Bothwick’s name, it gave the date when he had been killed.

  There were a handful of other names near the bottom. Each was identified as a Source with different dates and times following.

  Burke didn’t recognize the names.

  Then he saw another column title ‒ Tech Problem.

  It had a single name below it.

  Jules Tessier.

  Chapter 50

  After a few moments, Burke stopped staring at the smartboard and turned to the people opposite him.

  “Who put together that list?” Burke asked. “And what do all those column titles mean?”

  “We have some idea who’s behind the list, but I can’t divulge that information to you,” Torres said.

  Burke felt his anger rising. He wanted to know who had put him and Tessier on some kind of enemies list. And he wanted the police to do something more than be vague. As for Torres, instead of assuri
ng him he was safe, she was scaring him half to death.

  “OK, can you at least tell me what you’ve charged Chef Andres with?” Burke asked.

  “Not yet although we have charged two members of his catering staff with murder and attempted murder.”

  “Bothwick’s murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the attempted murder of me?” said Burke, hearing how odd such a question sounded.

  “Yes.”

  “When? At the riot in Girona?”

  “Correct.”

  “What about when somebody shot at me in the hills near Peῇíscola?”

  “We’re still looking into that.”

  Burke frowned, not believing the flics were still looking into that incident. If anything, he figured they’d never bought into the notion that someone had shot at him while he was out for a morning bike ride. And if they did accept his argument, he doubted they’d give it much time. They were too busy with other matters. His anger increased another notch.

  “So, you won’t tell me what Chef Andres is facing?”

  Torres shrugged and looked bored. It was a very French gesture, Burke thought. And definitely an annoying one.

  “Why not?” persisted Burke.

  “Because what he’s looking at is more complicated. I will tell you he won’t be going anywhere for a while. No judge will release him once we level all our charges.”

  So Chef Andres was screwed, Burke thought. He wasn’t displeased; there was something about the man that had always seemed secretive, unpleasant, even nasty despite his grandiose words and gestures in public. It was just a gut feeling, but Burke trusted his instincts, at least he had for the last few years.

  “And what’s the story with Tim Fritz?”

  Torres waved a finger at Burke. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask,” she said.

  “Well, I’m asking now.”

  “Seῇor Fritz is not likely to face any charges.”

  “How can that be?” asked Burke, surprised at the news. “Isn’t he involved in the food fraud?”

  “Again, I can’t disclose anything more about him at this time.”

  “Why not?” Then Burke had a thought. “Has he offered to testify against others if you don’t charge him?”

  “I’ll say it again. He won’t be charged and I can’t say anything more about him.”

  To Burke, it made no sense. If Fritz wasn’t implicated, why would Torres be so reluctant in saying anything about the American?

  Maybe Fritz had worked out some kind of deal with the police.

  No one said anything for several seconds and Burke expected that was the end of the interview. He thought the whole exercise had been a waste of time. The flics had asked questions which they knew the answers to and they’d dodged his queries.

  And when he looked at the faces opposite him, Burke thought only Mateo Ochoa was engaged. But he was too far down the food chain to have much impact or influence.

  “I need you to sign some witness statements for us, Seῇor Burke,” Torres said, nodding at the flic in the corner. “And I need to tell you that you will be called to testify once these cases go to trial. Also, it’s likely your presence will be required at the inquest into Seῇor López’s death.”

  Burke wasn’t surprised he’d be required to testify at the trials as well as at the inquest; after all, he’d had a front-row seat through much of the action.

  “When will all that happen?” he asked.

  “I expect the inquest will be within the next three or four weeks. As for the trials, you might not be needed for several months or even longer.”

  Burke would have to come back at least twice. He loved Spain, but the idea of returning to spend his time in a courtroom didn’t do anything for his spirits, even if Hélène said she’d accompany him and they’d take a short holiday after. The trials and inquest promised to be difficult and unpleasant. Burke cursed under his breath.

  “Your expenses will be paid,” Torres added and Burke realized she’d heard him swear.

  “Can I sign now and leave?”

  Torres looked at the officer at the computer who nodded. Seconds later, several sheets of paper issued from a small printer. Torres took the documents, scanned them and handed them to Burke along with a pen. Everything was happening quickly.

  “Read them for accuracy and please sign,” she said.

  Burke spent 10 minutes going through the pages and then he signed, satisfied that everything he’d said was reflected on the pages. The flic in the corner was good.

  “There will be a driver available at midnight to take you back to Girona,” Torres said. “Just be at the front of the building. The driver will recognize you. You can wait in the foyer if you want. In fact, I’d recommend it.”

  “Why the wait?”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, there was an incident tonight at the Dalí museum. All available officers are currently busy.”

  “Then order me a cab and pay for it,” Burke suggested.

  “You’ll be taken back the way you came – in a police vehicle.”

  Burke wondered if he was still at risk, but he was too tired to give the idea much thought. He had an hour to kill and then he’d be heading back to Girona. A quick sleep and then home. Finally.

  Burke headed for the door – and stopped. He looked back at Torres. “You said Tim Fritz won’t be charged. That means, he’s free to go back to the U.S., right?”

  “Seῇor Fritz is free to do so, but he’s staying an extra day or two to help us with our inquiries.”

  “Has he worked out some kind of deal with you?”

  Torres said nothing.

  “What about his wife, Wendy Klassen? She’s still here, right?”

  Torres glanced at the Interpol agent and Burke immediately sensed that mentioning Klassen was a trickier subject.

  “We appreciate your time, Seῇor Burke,” Torres said.

  Burke paused, looking from Torres to the Interpol agent and back to the Girona flic. “Is Klassen in trouble?”

  “You may leave now,” Torres said, waving a hand to the door.

  Burke thought the subject of Wendy Klassen wasn’t open for discussion. But why? Was Klassen linked to the food fraud or something else? Or was she being asked by the police to provide information about the food fraud or Chef Andres? Or maybe about her husband?

  Burke glanced again at Torres. The inspector didn’t look like someone filled with confidence about Klassen. If anything, Torres looked uncertain.

  But the flic was definitely certain about one thing – Burke had to leave.

  Burke looked at Ochoa who stared back, one eyebrow lifted like the actor Sean Connery. There was a message there, but Burke couldn’t decipher it.

  He left the room and was escorted by the uniformed officer to the foyer where Suzanne Godard was still sitting, looking as tired as he felt.

  “What happened? What did they want to know?” Godard said. “Are you free to go home?”

  “I can go home.”

  Godard nodded. “But what did they ask you?”

  “Nothing special. Just what I saw at the museum. A total waste of time.”

  Burke could see Godard didn’t entirely believe him, but he didn’t care. He lacked any interest in reviewing the conversation with the flics and answering the inevitable follow-up questions from his boss. He just wanted to get back to his normal way of life.

  “They’re giving me a ride back to Girona at midnight,” Burke said.

  “Why so late?”

  “They want me traveling in a police vehicle and no one will be available until then to drive me. The Dalí disaster has put the squeeze on their resources.”

  “That gives you just over an hour to kill, Paul. Let’s get the others together, if they’re around, and have a quick drink to say farewell to you and hopefully put an end to all this mess.”

  Burke smiled and agreed. He didn’t have any d
esire to wait in the foyer.

  Once outside, he stopped and took a big breath of the warm night air while Godard texted their colleagues. He could smell the nearby flowerbed and that instantly improved his mood. Over the last few years, he’d grown to dislike police stations; the air was always stale, there was usually an argument going on somewhere and the flics always seemed to be scrutinizing every visitor.

  “We’re set for a café a block from here,” Godard said. “You can see it from here.”

  Burke looked and saw a bright café that was fairly busy with people. That would do nicely.

  As they walked, Burke couldn’t get one thought out of his mind.

  Where was Wendy Klassen?

  Chapter 51

  Burke and Godard sat outside the café and ordered a carafe of sangria. It was almost 11 p.m., late for a Canadian ex-pat, but prime time for Spaniards to dine out or visit. And as Burke and Godard waited for their colleagues, more and more people arrived, taking up the majority of the nearby tables. For most of the arrivals, the main topic of conversation was what had happened at the Dalí museum. Social media had made the chaos at the museum instant news.

  “So, Suzanne, how many more days are you on the Vuelta trail?” Burke asked, not interested in listening to what the other customers were discussing.

  “Ten more days and then we’re done.”

  Burke nodded, struggling to find something to talk about. He sipped the sangria and was impressed by the rich flavor. It was one of the better sangrias he’d had, smooth with a nice balance of vanilla and mint to go with the red wine and strawberry and melon chunks. It was a Spanish drink and no one could make it like they did. The odd French café offered it, but it was never as good.

  “If I have anything to say about it, we’ll use you again as a colour commentator,” Godard said. “You worked exceptionally well with Nico and I know he’d like to do more races with you.”

  Burke studied Godard to see if she was just being nice or really meant it. By the look in her eyes, she was serious and that pleased Burke because the occasional announcing gig would be good for his bank account. Maybe one day he’d even get a chance to work the greatest bike race of all, the Tour de France.