by JJ Marsh
“Don’t exaggerate. And I’m on an extended holiday, so I brought everything I might need.”
“Including your golf clubs?”
The living room was filled with brightness: a yellow sofa, lively Kahlo colours on the walls and a washed-out turquoise table, covered with magazines. The only scent in the air was fabric conditioner from the clothes drying on the balcony.
“You’re in there, and the bathroom’s next door.” Ana indicated a door on the right, which opened onto a small, cosy room. The bed was covered with a quilt in jewel patches of ruby, gold and jade.
“It’s a beautiful apartment. The décor is a delight. So cheerful. You live here alone?”
“Yeah. I bought it as an investment, planning to get a lodger, but I discovered I prefer living alone. So I’m always skint, but at least I have my privacy. Now, come on, dump your bag and let’s go. You can pay tribute to my soft furnishings when we get back. First, we have to talk to the police.”
The architecture of the police station was a peculiar blend of austere and pompous, giving an unwelcoming impression. Prepared for hostility, Beatrice considered her approach as she and Ana waited in the bland foyer. In the past, the knowledge that she worked for London’s Metropolitan Police had raised hackles. On more than one occasion, representatives of local forces, especially those holding the same rank as herself, felt patronised and belittled by her; as if she thought them incompetent. Once or twice, they might have been right. Therefore, in Spain and not in an official capacity, she would need to be extremely diplomatic. At least she was wearing flip-flops. It would be impossible to pull rank in flip-flops.
“Good afternoon.” The man standing in the doorway had only one eyebrow. Where the other should have been was shiny scar tissue, reaching up to his hairline. Probably clean-shaven this morning, his chin now showed a distinct shadow. Black hair flopped over his forehead, partially hiding the scar. His dark eyes flicked from one to the other without smiling.
Ana rose. “Detective, thanks for seeing us. As I mentioned, Beatrice Stubbs is a detective inspector with the Met in London. Beatrice, this is Detective Milandro.”
He held out his hand. “You are on holiday, Detective Stubbs?”
Beatrice’s first challenge. Her title was Detective Inspector, and Ana had introduced her as such. But to correct him at this stage would be counter-productive and unnecessary. She wasn’t at work. She shook his hand.
“That’s right. Exploring the north coast of Spain. Ana is an old friend and she asked me for help, so I offered my advice. That’s why we’re here – to hand over what we know to the professionals.”
He cast a neutral look in Ana’s direction. “Come through. I can give you half an hour.”
He took them through a security door and escorted them along a corridor. An obscenely fat man came out of an office and stared at them as they passed. He grunted in response to Ana’s greeting and said something to Milandro, who motioned for them to enter an interview room on the right. He spoke quietly to the slug-like man in the corridor, leaving the door open.
Beatrice dropped her voice. “What are they saying?”
“I’ve no clue. They’re talking in Basque.”
Milandro joined them and closed the door.
“Who was he?” asked Ana.
Milandro seemed amused by her blunt query. “He is my superior officer, Detective Inspector Salgado. He likes to know what is going on.”
Ana gave a contemptuous look at the mirrored window, as if Salgado were on the other side. “And what did you tell him?”
“That I don’t know what’s going on. I hope you can enlighten me.”
His expression remained attentive and he asked several smart questions regarding their assumptions. Beatrice’s respect for the man grew, particularly as he seemed one of the few men who didn’t appear awed by Ana’s appearance.
He looked up from his notepad and directly at Ana. “So you think he was expecting to meet you? For some kind of date?”
Ana shrugged. “It looks that way. The flowers, the neighbour’s description of him as ‘dressed to kill’, and most importantly, the text message.”
Milandro made some more notes and Beatrice scrutinised the man for clues. Lean and muscular, he looked like a runner. His face, no older than forty, bore signs of stress and more scar tissue was visible on both hands. It must have been burns, perhaps an explosion. He raised his head to meet Beatrice’s stare, waited till she looked away and returned his attention to Ana.
“Why would he think you had a date? You say you made no plans to meet him on Sunday and there was no more intimacy than friendship. How did he get the wrong idea?”
Ana shook her head. “I don’t know. When he sent that message, I was on my way back from Sierra de la Demanda. The bus was full of soldiers and incredibly noisy. So I didn’t hear it and only noticed there was a message when I got home. By then it was after midnight so I didn’t answer. But when I read it again the next morning, I thought it was weird. I meant to ask him what he was playing at when I got to work. But as I told you, he didn’t show up.”
“Is it possible the message was meant for someone else, another ‘A’? And he sent it to the wrong person?”
“I suppose. But I know him pretty well, and his circle of friends. I can’t think of anyone who begins with ‘A’ apart from me.”
“Men are good at keeping secrets.” Milandro looked at Beatrice. “If the young man assumed there was a date, he must have had a good reason. Ana says she made no arrangement, so how else might Tiago have got the wrong idea?”
Beatrice thought about it. “Could someone have sent him a message on your behalf? Someone who knew you’d be out of town?”
Ana frowned. “No one knew I was going to Sierra de la Demanda because I only decided myself on Saturday morning. As for someone using my email, they’d have to know my password. I change it every week. And my phone is always with me. So I can’t see how.”
Beatrice checked Milandro. He looked back but gave no reaction. His silence seemed to be permission to continue. So she did.
“How would you ask someone for a date?” she thought aloud. “Face-to-face, over the phone, by email, by text, by sticking a note in his pocket? The first two are out, as he knows you and your voice so well.”
Milandro agreed. “And I assume he knows your handwriting, as you work closely together at the paper?”
“Yeah,” Ana nodded, “he takes the piss out of my writing. I learnt italics at school and still write like something out of the nineteenth century. He’d know if it was me or not.”
Milandro made a respectful open-hand gesture to Beatrice, indicating she could continue. She began to like this man. A genuinely decent sort.
“So email or text are our only options. He couldn’t have received either while you were in the bar on Friday otherwise he would have reacted. He must have received it on Saturday or Sunday, while you were in the mountains. Have you checked the sent folder from both your phone and email?”
Ana picked up her phone and began scrolling back through her messages.
“How long is your vacation, Detective Stubbs?” asked Milandro.
“Till Christmas. It’s more of a sabbatical than a holiday. Trying to decide if retirement would suit me.”
“Judging by current events, I would suggest not.” Milandro pointedly looked at Ana and back to Beatrice with one raised eyebrow.
Ana put her phone back on the table. “Nothing was sent from my personal email. I’ll check my work one when I get into the office. And like I said, my phone is with me always.”
“So what next? You would be able to ask for the CCTV recordings. Are you going to interview the bar owner of El Papagaio?” Beatrice asked Milandro.
“Possibly. Ladies, please let me know if you find any more information. I have to leave you now as I must make some calls. Thank you for your assistance in this matter. Detective Stubbs, could you tell me the name of your hotel or give a mobile number? In c
ase I need to contact you.”
“You can contact her at my place,” said Ana. “Calle Cuchillería, I think you have my details.”
Milandro’s single brow rose again.
Beatrice withdrew a card, clearly stating her identity as Detective Inspector Stubbs of the Met. “My mobile is bottom right.”
Milandro read it and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “Thanks. Have a pleasant evening and thank you for sharing your information. Goodbye.”
Ana seemed as buoyant as Beatrice on leaving the police station, but had to return to the newspaper offices to update her editor on the story. She dropped Beatrice off at Calle Cuchillería and sped off, hair flying from under her helmet.
After a brief visit to the supermarket, Beatrice returned to Ana’s building, recited several verses of ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ as the lift inched upwards and won the battle of wills with the lock on Ana’s apartment door. She made herself some tea and sat on the balcony with her laptop, intending to check her emails, but found herself constantly distracted by the activity from the street below. She realised, once again, that she was smiling. This break, only a week old, was proving excellent for her health. A plethora of art, fine food and awe-inspiring scenery accompanied by good wine, a ride on a moped and a little adventure was all it took to recharge her batteries. Just look at her now.
The sound of her mobile ringing brought her back to the moment.
“Hello, Beatrice Stubbs speaking?”
“Stubbs, my team are dealing with a series of major incidents involving trafficked weapons. The media are nipping my ankles over cover-ups from the 1970s, the terrorist threat has been raised to amber and the government wants expenditure cuts but improved levels of service, if you please. On top of which, I am one detective down. Because said detective is taking a well-earned sabbatical in order to rest and recuperate before getting back to work. So can you explain why, at the end of another hellish day of defensive strokes and damage control, I received a call from the Spanish police asking me to keep my people out of their jurisdiction?”
“Sir, it’s not really ...”
“The question was rhetorical. Good God, woman, even when you are not at work, you cause me headaches. What the hell are you playing at? If you want to do bloody detective work, get back here. But leave the Spanish police alone, stop telling other people how to do their jobs and keep your nose out of what doesn’t concern you. If I have to make another call such as this, there will be no need to discuss your future at the Metropolitan Police in the New Year. Do I make myself transparently clear?”
“Yes, sir. I wasn’t trying to tell anyone ...”
Hamilton cut her off with a pantomime sigh. “You are in Spain, DI Stubbs. Go native. Eat calamari, have a siesta, drink some sangria. Run with some bulls, if you’re that bloody bored. But for once in your life, stop interfering. That is an order. Good evening to you.”
Chapter 7
Ripples responded to the breeze, fluttering across the surface of the water with a sound like distant applause. Jeremy stretched and yawned. He damn well deserved a round of applause for getting up at seven in the morning. Marcus would have dragged them out of their tents even earlier, had it been light enough. As it was, he must have been up a good half hour ahead of them to get the fire going and prepare breakfast. Amazing sort, really. Just the type to keep both morale and discipline on track. Five creased and sour faces had brightened up after sausage, beans and bacon, mopped up with yesterday’s bread. Protein and carbs, essential for today’s forty-seven kilometre route.
Lots of groans and grunts from the chaps as they took to their bikes, not to mention a fair bit of ribbing. His own backside was tender on the saddle and his calves seemed to be screaming as he massaged in sun lotion, feeling an absolute twerp as he could see his breath in the autumn air. Whose damn fool idea was this anyway?
“Lactic acid, that’s all it is,” called Marcus, adjusting his helmet. “Best thing is to get the muscles moving. Nice easy one to start us off and we’ll tackle the hills after lunch.”
Jeremy sighed and double-checked his panniers. He wouldn’t make the mistake of sloppy packing and holding up the others a second time. They made sure they left their camping spot in pristine condition, dumped the rubbish in the municipal bin and headed out of town in single file.
The inlet curved away to a perfect U, allowing for a flat, gentle ride and an opportunity to take in the views. Despite the morning chill, one could see a fine day was in the offing. Cloudless sky, mist rising from the forests beyond and the sun heralded its imminent arrival with an intense white-gold glow from the other side of the reservoir. He enjoyed the rhythm of pumping legs, team spirit and collective sense of tackling a challenge. Nevertheless, his physical discomforts were not quite forgotten. It appeared he was not the only one.
“Sometimes, I feel
Like my arse is on fire
Sometimes, I feel
Like my arse is on fire”
Laughter spread even as far as Marcus when Laurence’s hearty baritone resonated along the line. Five voices joined in, creating a half-decent harmony.
“Sometimes, I feel
Like my arse is on fire
A long, long way
From my home”
The pace began to quicken as they made their way towards the dam and Jeremy felt a very simple, pure kind of pleasure. He knew he would remember this, in his dotage, as one of the happiest days of his life.
“Marcus? What say we have a photo op when we get to the dam?” Simon shouted. He’d become awfully fond of sharing their activities on Facebook, which necessitated regular stops, especially when their route passed anything tourist-worthy.
Marcus did not respond, but as they passed the massive edifice, made a crisp, military gesture to indicate left. Most of the chaps stayed on their bikes as Simon fiddled about with his gadget. Marcus removed his wraparound sunglasses.
“I told you yesterday, Harris, that you are entitled to no more than four of these stops per day. That’s one down, three to go. Choose wisely.”
“Wilco. Best get a group shot now then. Come along, ladies, into position.”
Laurence rolled his eyes but swung his bike to face Simon. The group lined up with surprising efficiency, Jeremy taking the spot furthest from the road. He attempted a kind of nonchalant smile, as if photographs were a silly affectation he could take or leave.
“One sec ...” Simon called, messing about with the camera.
Jeremy joined in the sighs, leant on his handlebars and studied the scale of the brickwork from top to bottom. His eyes registered a shape in the water, something oddly natural and yet not. Looked like a marble bust; shoulders, back and upper arms, but no visible head or lower body. Jeremy squinted and he tried to account for the trompe d’oeil with a logical explanation.
“OK, sorry about that. Say Camembert, everyone. Jeremy! Where the hell are you off to?”
“Hold that.” Jeremy swung his leg off the bike and handed it to Laurence. He scrabbled down the slope, annoyed by the uselessness of his cycle shoes on this terrain, focusing on his progress, not his target. He reached the fence and climbed over without a second’s hesitation. Now he kept his eyes on the shape. He could already see it wasn’t marble, or a bust. The indigo lines were veins and the cold blue he had mistaken for stone was pale, dead flesh. A body, face down. Legs dangled into deeper water, obscured by plants and black hair floated gently around the head. He reached the edge of the water and saw a hand bobbing along with the ripples. Fingers which must have held pencils, scratched heads, typed letters and caressed cheeks, now silently decomposing in cold, dark water. Jeremy’s stomach contracted.
“Jez?” Marcus jumped down from the fence. “Something wrong?”
The usual clipped tones were softer and the friendly diminutive didn’t go unnoticed. Relief in familiarity unlocked Jeremy’s jaw.
“I’ll say. Dead body. We should call the authorities. Simon’s best with the lingo.
Would you mind giving him a shout?”
The sun crept over the hills in the east, adding a cheerful light to the macabre scene. Yells ricocheted up and down the slope and some of the others came down for a closer look.
“What a horrible way to go.”
“Do you suppose he was fishing and fell in?”
“I doubt it, Laurence. Unless he was fly-fishing in the buff.”
“Poor bugger.”
Jeremy ignored it all. There was something wrong with the legs. Bodies float horizontally, unless something was dragging the ankles down. Jeremy scanned the scene and spotted a dangling branch a few yards ahead. It took seconds to break it off and return to the corpse.
Marcus frowned. “Look here, I wouldn’t touch it if I were you.”
“I’m not going to touch it. I just want to know what’s weighing it down.”
“Best leave that sort of thing to the police, I’d say. For all we know, this could be a crime scene. Jez?”
Crouching on the bank, Jeremy lowered the branch into the water and made a slow sweep beneath the body. He met resistance, as expected, under the legs. So he tried to draw the branch, and the body, closer. But something gave way, the branch broke the surface and Jeremy fell backwards. However, the momentum he had instigated continued, to the dumbstruck horror of the men on the bank. Legs freed, the body sank, rolled and resurfaced, horizontal and face up.
“Jesus Christ!”
Jeremy’s eyes registered the image for only a second before he turned to heave up his breakfast. But no matter how tightly he closed his lids, he would never be able to erase the image of what he’d just seen. A siren approached.
Chapter 8
At the Feira do Vino, all roads lead to Castelo de Aguirre. An exhibition stand to suit his status, at last. The centrepiece, sitting at the junction of five aisles, clearly announced his importance to the world. After attending the biggest trade fair in the country for ten consecutive years, finally, he was king. He’d allowed his daughters to select the décor, on condition he had final veto. The girls proved useful in such roles. He’d suggested red and yellow; dynamic and forceful colours, an attention-grabbing logo and beautiful young girls serving the wine. His daughters turned up their noses in perfect synchrony, comparing his design ideas to the marketing of McDonald’s. Now, returning after a long lunch, he acknowledged his intelligence in allowing them a free hand.
