by JJ Marsh
Beatrice stiffened. “Missing accountant and missing journalist story. Are you not concerned about your employee at all?” She reined herself in, recalling Ana’s words. Tell no one.
“May I?” With a grin bordering on wolfish, he relaxed into the seat opposite and looked her in the eye. He was undeniably attractive, in that slightly rough, French actor sort of way. And close up, it appeared his eyes were deep blue. Beatrice smiled back.
“It’s not unusual for a journalist to slip off the radar when they get close to cracking a story. Sometimes because their hours are irregular, sometimes because they’re working undercover and can’t take the risk of contacting the paper, sometimes because their minds are on other things. I trust Tiago’s judgement and I think he’ll be back with a fantastic exclusive in a few days.”
Determined to stick to the party line, Beatrice ignored the sudden urge to put the man straight. Instead, she focused on his smile. Teeth that white surely couldn’t be natural. She wondered how he did it.
“You must wonder what kind of undisciplined shop I run, Detective Inspector Stubbs. I guess the Metropolitan Police must be more rigid, no?”
“Hi, Jaime. You met Beatrice, then?” Ana returned to her seat and began stacking the photocopied papers into a neat pile.
He fixed his deep blue eyes on Beatrice. “I have had the pleasure, yes.” He turned his attention to Ana. “So, any developments?”
Ana shook her head. “Not yet. We spoke to the girlfriend and now have to go through everything she gave us – this lot. I’m taking it home, OK? And I plan to visit the accountants’ office tomorrow, but I’ll keep you informed.”
Jaime laughed. “That’ll be a first. I must get on. Good luck with all the research.” He waved a hand at the uninviting stack of documents. “Hope to talk to you again, Detective Inspector Stubbs. Can I give you my card?”
“Thank you. Here’s mine. And please call me Beatrice. I’m off duty. Nice meeting you, Jaime.”
With another flash of teeth, he wandered away. Beatrice noticed the black cowboy boots complete with faux spurs and the tight-fitting jeans. Jaime was one of those men with an impossibly small bottom.
“Beatrice Stubbs! Were you just flirting with my boss?”
She met Ana’s incredulous expression with a look of outraged innocence.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Just because I enjoy some civilised interaction with an aesthetically pleasing specimen, you suspect the worst.”
“You were checking out his arse!”
“I most certainly was not. And one thing you should learn; making easy assumptions leads to guaranteed failure in the field of detective work. So, out of interest, is he single?”
More photographs of beautiful people. Beatrice’s head throbbed and she’d long since lost interest.
“This is Angel Rosado, successful businessman, well-connected and happily married. He and his wife often attend high-profile cultural events, pressing powerful flesh.”
“Handsome.” Beatrice observed, with little enthusiasm. “And she’s very glamorous. Although that’s one hell of a nose.”
“Yep. Runs in the family. Boom boom.” Ana scrolled through more pictures on the gossip website, as Beatrice watched and listened to the commentary. Two solid hours of poring over the scrappy and incomprehensible notes left by Miguel Saez, followed by endless screens of false smiles. Even if she knew who these people were, she’d still be bored. As for the case, a feeling of complete confusion made logical thought beyond her.
“Ana, I think I need a break ...”
“OK, two minutes. This is his sister-in-law again. See how the whole lot are interconnected? There’s no branch of the trade without one of them involved. And here he is, Arturo de Aguirre, the patriarch and champion of white Rioja.”
Beatrice squinted at the screen. The man’s arch expression conveyed immense confidence. “Well, you can see where Mrs Rosado got her nose from. And this bloke does what exactly?”
“He owns one of the most famous vineyards in the region, Castelo de Aguirre. It’s open to the public, maybe we should have a poke around.”
“I think that might be a job for me. I planned to visit some Rioja producers. But now, if you don’t mind, I need to lie down in a dark room and have a glass of water.”
“Are you OK?”
Beatrice considered the question. A vague panicky feeling lapped at her insides, her head pounded and she felt smothered by the foreignness of it all.
“Yes, I think so. Just feeling out of my depth. Miguel’s notes in Spanish, his sums, incomprehensible numbers, and all these well-known faces I’ve never heard of. I wonder how much use I can be.”
Ana closed the laptop and went into the kitchen. She returned with a glass of water, ice cubes chinking cheerfully. “I should apologise. I get so into all this stuff, I forget you’re not working, you’re on holiday. I’m being a bully. Listen, why don’t you rest for a couple of hours and I’ll make some food. And some phone calls. The only way we’ll get any sense out of these figures is by asking an expert. This is where a large family can come in handy.”
Beatrice sipped, the cool sensation spreading down her throat and across her chest. She pressed the glass to her forehead, condensation chilling her brow. The itch around her nose and eyes seemed to abate and she looked up at Ana. “Let me guess. You have three highly qualified accountants for siblings and a bank manager for a mother?”
Ana sat on the coffee table, her face concerned. “Do you want a paracetamol? You don’t look good.”
“I’m fine. Just in need of a rest. Which experts are you going to call?”
“All right. No, the immediate family are no good. I’m an only child and my dad is a professor of Celtic History. He’s worse at maths than I am. My mother, when she was alive, couldn’t even work out percentages. But I do have plenty of cousins, all of whom have done better in the professional sphere than me. Armando’s not only a partner in a Porto accountancy firm, but he loves a mystery. I’ll scan this stuff over to him and see what he makes of it.”
A breeze brushed over Beatrice’s face, a soothing feeling. She wanted to ask Ana more questions, particularly about her mother, but they would keep for later. And anyway, she was still talking.
“Then tomorrow, I’ll visit the accountants, check in with Milandro and you can do the tourist thing and take a nose around the Aguirre estate.”
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea for us to split up. If what happened to Tiago was intended as a warning ...”
Ana hesitated. “I know. I’ll be careful. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll call the paper and let them know what we’re up to. Don’t worry about me, I can look after myself.”
Beatrice frowned into her water. For an intelligent girl, Ana could be absurdly naïve.
Chapter 12
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
I shall begin, as is only polite, by thanking you for your previous. However, please do not think for one moment that I am ignorant of the reasons why you chose to explain via electronic correspondence. More of that in a moment.
Firstly, I found much about your communication cause for relief. Your tone sounds cheerful, optimistic, inspired and engaged, just as a tourist should. If your intention was to engender a jealous rage by detailing your culinary experiences thus far, you succeeded to such an extent that my eyes seem to have changed colour permanently. Tanya’s journalist friend sounds delightful and very generous in allowing you to stay in her apartment. Both Tanya and Marianne asked me to pass on their regards.
Yet the cautious curmudgeon in me has found much of interest and concern between the lines. For the first week of your extended holiday, we spoke daily on the telephone. Yesterday, you chose to substitute our conversation for a one-sided email, with the casual aside: ‘too much to tell you over the phone’. It may well be the most efficient method of informing me of the significant changes which have occurred since our last chat, but a
lso ensures I cannot interrupt.
A further worry is your decision to abandon your plan for relaxation and ‘battery-charging’ to become involved in an investigation. The fact that it is under the auspices of journalism rather than crime is a semantic distinction. You are working, Old Thing, while on holiday. I only hope Hamilton doesn’t find out.
I have typed and deleted the following sentence three times: You know best. Unfortunately, our experience shows this conceit as fundamentally flawed. I trust you understand that I am not talking about the Pembroke incident. Not even I could be that crass. In a more general sense, we have agreed that you function best with your support mechanism intact. While I respect and admire your judgement and professional brilliance, sometimes, Old Thing, you make the worst imaginable decisions for yourself. I hope you understand my unease as concern rather than mistrust.
All that remains for me to say is that I wish you a wonderful adventure in Vitoria, be it culinary, advisory or artistic. I would feel vastly reassured if we could find a way of conversing in the next few days.
Beatrice, be careful. And please call James.
With love, affection and considerable exasperation
Matthew
Chapter 13
It took less than a minute for Beatrice to decide that she loathed at least eighty percent of her companions on the wine tour. Unreasonable it may have been, but an undeniable fact. A thundercloud loomed over her outlook, driven by her worry for Ana along with a general sense of isolation and loneliness. Not only that, but Matthew’s email had hit its target. He should be here. When she’d made the decision to travel alone, with the aim of considering her options, she thought it was best. Now, she missed his anchoring effect and light touch on the tiller. How he’d love this autumnal light, the vivid landscape of seasonal tones, the epicurean delights, her snide observations on other travellers and most of all, he’d love the wine. But he wasn’t here. All her own fault, which only made it worse.
The ill-matched bunch waited in the assembly area, a lumpen assortment wearing the universal uniform of the tourist. Turquoise anoraks, puce bum-bags and lime rucksacks, elasticated waists and bulging pockets of all-purpose beige trousers with an abundance of zips. The party, to which Beatrice contributed her own sour expression, created a startlingly ugly contrast to whitewashed walls, oak barrels and a panorama of vineyards through the window. She hated to be part of such a group, and hated herself more for being such an unbearable snob. Perhaps she should leave.
“Good morning, everyone. My name is Claudia and I am your tour guide today. OK, how many English speakers?”
Most raised their hands, excepting three superior-looking ladies with steely hair and pastel suits, the Italian foursome and a young couple who could not stop kissing and giggling. Beatrice wondered if they’d even heard the question.
“Qui parle français? Español?”
Claudia, after much discussion, agreed to conduct the tour in English, Spanish, Italian and French.
She led them outside and began her spiel. The sun bounced off the white walls of the Tourist Centre, as the visitors listened to the history of the Castelo. The two Italian couples continued to talk amongst themselves, pointing out objects of interest to each other as if nothing else was happening. Claudia raised her volume and switched to Spanish. The young couple paid no attention, whispering, goosing and squealing while the poor guide ran through her speech. The Frenchwomen began to scowl and tut, the sun caused Beatrice’s eyes to water and her irritation reached breaking point. This was a waste of time. She would leave, forget the money she’d spent on the taxi and admission fee and go back to Calle Cuchillería.
“Claudia?” A stentorian voice echoed around the courtyard, silencing the Italians and drawing everyone’s attention upwards. Even the dry-humpers took their eyes off each other for a moment. Arturo de Aguirre surveyed them from a stone balcony above. He exchanged a few rapid words with the tour girl and disappeared. Her strained expression evaporated and she broke into a genuine smile.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have luck. Señor Aguirre, the owner of the vineyard, will join us. This is not usual.”
The truth of that statement was visible in her face. Her anticipation affected everyone, so that as Aguirre rounded the corner, a spontaneous patter of applause greeted him.
“Kaixo. Ongi etorri! Welcome, bienvenue, benvenuti, bienvenidos, velkommen.” He turned his attention to an oriental pair. “Mabuhay.”
They nodded and smiled. He’d clearly done his research on their party.
He continued with an expansive gesture. “Sadly, that is the extent of my Tagalog vocabulary. Claudia is far more talented with languages. We’re so lucky to have her. And yet, four translations make the tour hard work not only for your lovely guide, but also for you. So let’s split the group. I will take the English speakers, Claudia, the rest. Come, everyone!”
He did not translate, leaving their tour guide to relay the reason why most of the party was departing. Beatrice assessed the individual striding ahead. The photograph in the gossip magazine had captured his essence. Arrogant, confident and with such force of personality, compliance seemed compulsory. She could still leave and call that taxi, if she wanted. But in the interests of research, it might be better to persevere. She hurried after the rest of Aguirre’s acolytes in the direction of the vines.
Long rows of richly coloured foliage stretched into the distance; copper, amaranth, gold, carmine and rust, the breeze and sunlight creating an illusion of flames rippling across the fields. Towards the end of the ordered lines, workers moved back and forth, tending the plants. As the party descended stone steps from the terrace to the vineyard, Beatrice raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun and caught her foot on the step. She stumbled and lurched into the young man in front.
“Hey up, steady on.” He caught her arm, restoring her balance. “You all right there?” His head was shaved and he wore a white T-shirt stretched over a muscle-bound body. Normally the sort of man Beatrice would avoid.
“I’m so sorry. It’s these bloody flip-flops. That and not looking where I’m going.”
“Can’t blame you. One hell of a view, in’t it?” He stood beside her and they gazed out over the sweep of ridged vineyards and distant mountains.
“It is,” Beatrice agreed. “Imagine waking up to this every morning.”
“Beats the back end of Bolton Gasworks, all right. Can you see that church? Over there, on the top of that hill.”
Beatrice’s eyes followed the direction of his finger. “Oh yes. Looks like something from a tourist brochure.”
“Or a spaghetti western. Come on, we’re getting left behind.” He held out his hand to guide her and she took it, the kindness of the gesture overcoming her pride.
“Do you really come from Bolton?” she asked.
His eyes creased with amusement. “Somebody’s got to. Yeah, I’m a Bolton lad, but I don’t live there anymore. Got a place in London.”
“Whereabouts? I live in the East End.”
“Nice. My flat’s in the Docklands. I don’t spend much time there. I’m in the army so it’s only for when I’m home on leave. You can’t knock the Docklands for convenience, but it’s got a bit pretentious.”
“I know what you mean. Same round my way. Gastro pubs instead of boozers, Italian delis instead of Billingsgate and you could walk the length and breadth of Hoxton in search of a pickled egg.” Her foot met soil and she released the man’s hand.
The rest of the party awaited them at the top of a row of vines, so they picked up their pace.
“I’m Kevin, by the way.”
“Beatrice.” They shook hands. “Thanks for the help.”
Ana’s patience was wearing thin. The receptionist at GFS had assured her that the CEO would be out to meet her in about ten minutes. That was over half an hour ago. She replaced the Financial Times in the rack and approached the desk.
“Sorry to bother you. You said Señor Alvarez would be here
soon?”
The woman, whose forehead seemed to be laminated, tilted her head in an expression of artificial surprise. “I said he would be here as soon as he gets a spare moment. You had no appointment and he is a man with many demands on his time.”
“I understand that. I’m just wondering how long it’s likely to be. Can you give me a rough estimate?” Ana gave her brightest smile.
“I doubt it.” The forehead obviously couldn’t do frowns either.
Ana maintained the smile as she retook her seat. She’d wait it out. She had to. After drawing a complete blank at the police station, she couldn’t go back to the paper empty-handed. Anyway, he couldn’t stay in there much longer; it was almost lunchtime. Even Ana’s stomach was rumbling, despite what she’d put away at breakfast. A sense of guilt tugged at her, in the knowledge that Beatrice’s tetchy behaviour yesterday and this morning was wholly due to Ana. The poor woman only wanted a relaxing break, but she’d been bullied into working for free. Well, their agreement was until the end of the week. Two more days and then Ana would be on her own. And she’d got nowhere.
Her hollow promises to Tiago’s mother rang in her ears. Yes, she would come to the funeral. Yes, no matter what the coroner said, she’d try to find out what happened. Yes, of course she would pray for them. Her eyes pricked as she recalled the devastated woman’s attempts at controlling her grief.
This was bullshit. The one thing Ana didn’t need was any more thinking time. Alvarez could stuff it and Ana would find the information she needed some other way. She got to her feet. The receptionist watched her approach, picked up the phone and asked a question. She listened for a second and replaced the receiver.
“I’m sorry, but it seems you’re out of luck. Señor Alvarez has left for a lunch meeting. Why don’t you try some other time? Perhaps when it’s more convenient for our managing director.”
Ana knew there would be no convenient time. “Is there anyone else I could speak to? Someone who worked with Miguel Saez? There must be someone here who knew him.”
