by JJ Marsh
The girl shook her head, rubbing her upper arms as if she were cold. “Nothing. You turned up and rang the doorbell, thanks be to God. If you’d been any later … oh, let’s not talk about it. There’s no real harm done.”
“Of course. I don’t want to push you.”
A silence expanded into the space between them. Beatrice felt foolish, kneeling on the floor in sympathy, but instinct told her to wait a few more seconds.
Ana’s voice, when it came, was tight. “They didn’t hurt me. Just gave me a taste of what would happen if I refused to leave. Bit of manhandling to let me know who holds the power, that’s all. It was enough.”
“I’ll make some more tea and then perhaps we should consider our next steps.” Beatrice’s knee protested as she rose, so she used the armrest to help herself upright. She was surprised to feel Ana’s cold hand cover hers.
“Beatrice, I’ve been honest. No rape, no violence, just some inappropriate touching and heavy threats. Now will you do me the same courtesy and tell me what really happened to you?”
“I fell up the steps. Honestly. These bloody stupid flip-flops tripped me and I smacked my face on a lump of stone. Clumsy, yes, but sinister, no. What happened here frightens me far more.”
Ana looked at her, nodding slowly.
“You’re right. You don’t need this bullshit. Look, you’re very good and you’ve been generous with your time. I really appreciate all your help, but I’ve held you up long enough. I’m going to take a break and return to Portugal, so it might be time for you to move on with your trip. We’ve reached the end of the road.”
Beatrice sat in her room, or rather Ana’s guest room and acknowledged her duty. Her conscience, which she’d been able to drown out by constant activity, took full advantage of the meditative silence. Call him. She’d left it far too long and apart from anything else, it was bad manners. With a glance at the clock, she picked up her mobile.
“Beatrice! How lovely to hear from you. I’m so relieved you called.”
Bubbles of unanticipated pleasure fizzed upwards, countering the leaden pull of homesickness. She missed him. She needed him. Why had she waited so long?
“James, you’re very kind. Rather than reprimanding me for missing our last session, you sound as if you’re actually pleased to hear from me.”
“I most definitely am pleased to hear from you. Although I should say that I have another client due in about ten minutes, so a full consultation will not be possible right now.”
“Oh, I didn’t expect one. Phoning you out of the blue and expecting you to have a free hour would be downright rude. No, it’s just a quick call to tell you I decided to take the sabbatical after all. Which is why I missed my last appointment. I’m in Spain at the moment and plan to travel around till I get fed up.”
He took a few seconds to respond. “I see. I hope you have a relaxing and contemplative holiday. Can I ask what you had in mind regarding our ongoing treatment?”
With a grimace, Beatrice knew she should have thought about that. She hadn’t and James knew it.
“Well, I was wondering if we could have chats over the phone, instead. We’ve done that before, remember.”
“I do remember. That’s certainly possible. I have a couple of practical concerns, but they can wait. I have the feeling this is more than a courtesy call, Beatrice. Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”
Seconds ticked past as Beatrice considered her reply.
James prompted her. “Any indications as to your state of mind are always welcome.”
“My state of mind? I’m watching an abyss open up. This situation is complicated and not entirely relevant, but it makes me feel helpless. Exactly the problem I was facing before. I will never be able to protect all of them, so what’s the point? What is the point of any of this? Right now, the world seems callous, James. Just selfish and brutal in pursuit of its own interests. On top of that, institutions which supposedly stand for truth and justice and honour are infected with the same individualistic point-scoring as everywhere else so I really don’t know why I bother feeling any obligation to do my duty.”
“I may have misunderstood, but I thought you were on holiday. Whom exactly is it your duty to protect? Have you adopted a colony of Catalonian cats?”
Beatrice laughed, acknowledging James’s accurate analogy. “Not cats. But I offered to advise on a missing persons’ case. I tell you what, James, it’s no fun working a line of enquiry as a civilian.”
“Which leads me to ask, why do it? I understood the offer of a sabbatical was to take a break from your routine, to use the time to reflect and consider your future.”
Again, Beatrice dug deep for an honest response, but time ran out on her.
“Beatrice, I’m sorry, but my next client is due. And I think we need more than a few minutes to unpack what you’ve just said. I have a slot on Friday. Could you call me at eight-thirty?”
“Yes, of course. Sorry to hog your time like this.”
“Please don’t apologise. I’d rather know how you are than not. Between now and Friday’s conversation, I’d like you to think about three things. What is the aim of this sabbatical? How is your current choice of action furthering that aim? How would Matthew and Hamilton react if they knew? And how does that affect you?”
“That’s four things.”
“You can have the last one for free. Half past eight UK time on Friday, okay?”
“Thank you James. It’s kind of you to fit me in. I’ll try to be better by then.”
“You don’t need to be ‘better’. Just honest.”
He made it sound easy.
A tap on the door pulled her from a fretful doze. Still fully dressed, she lay on top of the quilt, trying to recall her peculiar dream when the tap came again.
“Hello?”
Ana’s voice came through the wood. “Sorry to wake you, Beatrice. Can I come in?”
“Of course. I’m decent.” Beatrice swung her feet to the floor and rubbed her face.
The woman who entered the room was wholly altered. The tense, haunted creature had disappeared, replaced by a determined expression in jeans and a leather jacket.
She smiled as she came into the room and stood with her hands on her hips in front of Beatrice. “I heard you on the phone before. Have you made arrangements to leave?”
A warm flush crept up Beatrice’s throat. “No, I suppose I should ...”
“Good. We might need to rethink this. I had a couple of calls while you were resting. The police went public with the identity of the body this afternoon. Jaime, bless him, called me first to break the news. The story runs tomorrow.”
“And cause of death?”
“Accident. No mention of the mutilation. So we know the police are hiding the truth. But more importantly, Armando got back to me. Seems Miguel Saez was onto something. Come on, we’re going to El Papagaio to eat lunch and create a smokescreen.”
Chapter 17
“Ana! Beatrice! Finally!” Enrique’s pleasure at their arrival seemed heartfelt. He clapped a hand to his chest. “Oh Beatrice! Your face!”
“I tripped up some steps. My own fault for wearing ridiculous shoes.”
“You poor woman. On your holiday as well. Where have you two been? I haven’t seen you all week.”
“Sorry Enrique. You know how it is.” Ana’s smile disappeared so fast it might not have even been there. The girl was quite a performer.
Concern rippled across Enrique’s face. “Have you news of Tiago?”
Ana nodded, her face scrunched up she covered her eyes. Right on time, Beatrice put an arm around her shoulders and pulled a sympathetic face. Enrique hurried from behind the bar, shielding them from the inquisitive stares of his other customers.
“Come, sit at the back, it’s quieter. I’ll bring drinks.”
Ana looked up, her eyes glistening, her forehead creased. “Tiago’s dead, Enrique. He had an accident and fell. I just heard this afternoon.”
All animation and colour drained from Enrique’s face. “No puede ser! Not Tiago? When was this?”
Ana shrugged as if the timing was an irrelevance.
“You need something for the shock. Sit, sit.” He rushed back to the bar, snapping an order at a young waiter, who tore himself away from the TV and trudged through to the back.
Beatrice dropped her voice. “That was amazing. You convinced me completely.”
“It wasn’t only an act. Tiago was one of the sweetest, gentlest men I ever met. I’m going to miss him.”
Shame burst over Beatrice like prickly heat. “Ana, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so insensitive ...”
“It’s fine. I’ve not yet cried for him, so I may as well take the opportunity to grieve when it’s most useful. See? Not entirely heartless but always practical. Here he comes.”
Enrique set a bottle of red on the table with two glasses. On his upper arm, he wore a black armband. He tapped it, met their eyes and nodded with theatrical woe.
“Today, you are my guests. You will drink a fine Rioja, eat the best I can offer and say goodbye to our friend.”
Ana gave him a weak smile. “Thank you. It’s a double goodbye, in fact. I’m leaving Vitoria. The loss of Tiago ... I can’t explain it. I just want to go home for a while.”
Enrique shook his head. “For me, this is a second blow. The tragic death of that fine young man and now you, one of my favourites, go back to Portugal. Today is a sad day. Very sad for all of us.”
He returned to the bar, maintaining his pained air even as he continued to serve his curious clientele. His explanations involved lots of head-shaking and sorrowful glances in the direction of their table.
Beatrice poured the wine. “How does he know that ‘home’ means Portugal?”
“Everyone knows where I come from. I speak reasonable Castilian, but if I get stuck, I simply use Portuguese with a Spanish accent. They call it my Portañol. He’s not given us anything new by that.”
“Hmm. Did he react as you imagined? He learns of an acquaintance’s death, provides food and puts on an armband. I appreciate the offer of sustenance might be a cultural trait, but I find it very peculiar that he asked no questions.”
Ana sniffed the wine, nodding. “Me too. That’s not normal behaviour. Every time I’ve interviewed someone even loosely connected to an unexpected death, the first thing people want is the details – how. Enrique asked only one question – when. Why would it matter when Tiago died, unless it was Sunday night and so connected to El Papagaio?”
The young waiter approached bearing a heavy copper tureen. He placed it between them and lifted the lid. “Paella, señoras. Buen provecho!”
The golden rice, studded with prawns, clams, peas, mussels, peppers, lemon wedges and chicken sat in a bath of fragrant stock. Beatrice looked across at Enrique. Despite her suspicions of his various sins such as lying, dissembling and ham acting, she acknowledged his gift with a happy grin. The tragic lines fell away from his face and he blew them both a kiss before placing his hand on his chest, shaking his head and adopting his grief mask once more.
The waiter served a portion each, brought a breadbasket and returned to his spot to watch the football. Determined to devote at least four of her senses to the feast in front of her, Beatrice lent Ana her ears.
“Your cousin. What did he say about the accountant’s books?”
Ana kept her head down, but a slow smile crept across her face. “What do you think of the wine?”
With exaggerated respect, Beatrice lifted her glass to the light, wafted the rim under her nose and finally took a careful sip.
“Magenta and ruby, fading to a cerise rim. No hint of tawny. Nose, a riot of summer fruits with some leather, earth and French oak. Textured and creamy with structured tannins which do not dominate the end palate, leaving us with caramel and burnt toast. A deeply satisfying glass. I suggest paella as the perfect accompaniment.”
She dug her fork into the steaming mass and was about to lift it to her mouth when she caught Ana’s gesture. Holding the bottle by the neck, Ana twisted the label to face Beatrice.
Castelo de Aguirre Gran Reserva 2009
Beatrice began to eat. Ana began to talk.
“Do you know how much Rioja is produced every year? I’ll tell you. The region produces just under 200 million litres of red, over 100 million of white, with around 15 of rosé. It used to be around 300 million of red and very little else.”
This much Beatrice knew. “So white is on the up. Largely due to Aguirre and his operation. Are you not going to eat?”
“I’m in shock, remember. I’ll grieve here and get a kebab on the way home. It does smell gorgeous, though. Force a couple of mouthfuls down me and don’t take no for an answer.”
An elaborate Kabuki performance ensued, after which Beatrice felt she’d earned a part in any major mimed soap opera. Ana, for her part, affected great reluctance and misery while making enthusiastic noises of enjoyment.
Ana: (drops head onto fist) Jesus, these prawns taste like a fishy bicep. Pass me another, would you?
Beatrice: (opens pleading palms) Wait till you get to the clams. Melt in your mouth. Do you want some bread? (offers breadbasket, squeezes hand)
Ana: (shakes head sadly) Is the Pope Catholic? Tear me off a chunk and pass it over.
Beatrice: Grief steals the appetite but the bereaved often take to drink. Do you want a top up? It really is a divine wine.
Ana: (wipes away fictional tears): For authenticity’s sake, I suppose I can’t refuse.
Enrique and his punters proved an attentive audience, observing and remarking on each gesture with less than covert analysis. Many heads joined Enrique in the regretful shake.
“Right, so Miguel’s figures focused on exports. Our friend,” she tapped the bottle, “is the leading exporter of white Rioja. His marketing pitch makes a massive deal of the Viura grape. Apparently it forms 80% of every bottle of Aguirre white.”
“Exactly what I heard on the tour. He grows almost exclusively white grapes as the Control Board permits a greater density per hectare than red.”
Ana focused on Beatrice, her eyes sharp. “Do you remember the numbers?”
“No. And you look far too cheerful. Now dab your eyes and tell me.”
Ana pressed a napkin to the bridge of her nose and talked almost as quickly as if she were speaking Spanish.
“No wine-grower can produce more than seven thousand kilos of grapes per hectare. Not if they want the official Rioja seal. Aguirre has just under sixty-five hectares. So his maximum output can only be around ninety million litres. Most, but not all of which is white. And out of the total yield, most vineyards sell two thirds to the domestic market. The figures Miguel found at Alava Exports showed that Aguirre’s vineyard exported seventy-three million litres. Not simply white Rioja, but Viura.”
“Numbers aren’t my strong point. But it seems the bloke sells more of his stuff abroad than he does at home. So his worst crime is disloyalty?”
Ana dropped the napkin but kept her hands in a prayer gesture over her nose and mouth. “More like fraud. He also sells fifty-eight million litres in Spain. Numbers aren’t my strong point either, but I can add seventy-three to fifty-eight. Comes to more than his maximum yield of ninety-one. Someone’s getting shafted, Beatrice, and I doubt it’s the Spanish.”
Beatrice remembered the spotlight and handed Ana a tissue while considering the implications. She imagined the outrage of her favourite connoisseurs if they heard.
“So while you go to Portugal, should I go back to the police?”
“I’m not going to Portugal and you’re not going to the police. Come here to me and listen. I’ve delayed you long enough. Go on holiday. I’m more grateful for your help than I can say, but I can’t ask you for more.”
“Without that first sentence, I might have agreed. I’m not comfortable leaving at this point. However, since I’m your guest, you could always throw me out, onto the street, l
ike an unwanted old moggy ...”
“If you make me laugh, our performance is knackered. Thing is, I really don’t want you to go, but I can’t think of any good reason to keep you. If you would hang on a few more days, though, I’d be more grateful than you can imagine.”
Beatrice reached for her hand, this time for a genuine reason.
Ana squeezed back. “Thing is, we have to get out of my apartment. For our own safety. Perhaps Jaime would let us stay at his place.”
“There’s a thought.”
Ana’s eyes crinkled. “You’d better behave yourself, mind. As well as being easy on the eye, he’s a decent bloke and has some useful contacts. You know what, we could really do with comparing the export wine to the stuff Aguirre sells here. Do you know anyone in the wine trade?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. And he would just love the thought of offering his expertise. I’ll give Adrian a ring when we get back.”
“Great. Shit.” Ana’s shoulders shook, her face crumpled and she held out her arms. “Enrique’s coming. Give me a hug.”
Chapter 18
“Oh my God! What the hell happened?”
“It’s fine, Jaime. My nose became intimately acquainted with some stone steps. I fell over. Nothing broken but I know it doesn’t look pretty.”
As if remembering his manners, Jaime leant in to kiss Beatrice. He smelt of coffee and cigarettes, a surprisingly attractive combination. She offered both cheeks and inhaled.
“Welcome, Beatrice. I’m very happy to see you again.” He searched her face. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. Really. Probably because of the painkillers. It’s very kind of you to put us up. I was quite prepared to book a hotel, but I must confess, I feel far safer here. It’s awfully good of you.”
“Not at all. I’m glad I could help. I told Ana on the phone, I’d rather know you were safe. For me, it’s a pleasure to have guests. A boring bachelor doesn’t often receive visitors, so this gives me a chance to practise my cooking. Have you eaten?”
“We had lunch, but that was a while back. And I’m sure Ana’s still hungry. Where has she got to? She was only supposed to pay the taxi driver.”
