by JJ Marsh
“It’s like riding a bike. You never really forget how to do it. Now, check your mirrors and indicate. Off we go.”
Pulling out smoothly, without a single kangaroo jump, Beatrice followed the path the SUV had taken. Her right foot tensed, ready to brake as she cruised out of the service station and back onto the motorway. She checked all three mirrors every ten seconds as her thoughts followed a circular swooping pattern. She’d left Ana. On Ana’s instructions. But was it really Ana? She should turn back. No sign of the SUV. She should call the police. The traffic was terrifying. She’d left Ana. Still no sign of that car. Or those men. She kept going. She’d left Ana. The speedometer bobbed around just below ninety kph. She stayed in the slow lane, a healthy distance behind a large truck. A blue motorway sign informed her that she was thirteen kilometres from Vitoria. A flash of lights made her check her rear-view mirror. The SUV was speeding down the fast lane, intimidating vehicles in its path by flashing its lights and driving dangerously close.
Beatrice fought back her panic and tried to think logically. The men were after her, that much was clear. The question was, why? Did they mean to crank up the level of threat so she and Ana would do as they were told and leave well alone? Or was their intention to get rid of them more permanently, in the same way as Tiago? The tension in her shoulders developed into a pain as she saw the vehicle indicate and slow to pull in behind her. They couldn’t run her off the road, not with this many witnesses. They would have to get her onto some deserted back road, which was not going to happen. One alternative was to follow her into the city and grab her as she left the car. In which case, she would have to stop somewhere public. The grille filled her rear window. They were so close she couldn’t even see the occupants. If she were to brake ... and that gave her an idea.
On entering the centre of Vitoria, Beatrice had no idea which way to go. The traffic stopped at a set of lights, with Beatrice on the inside lane and her pursuers directly behind. Her hands were still shaking. She looked for the handle to unwind the window. It was missing. Her heart skipped until she realised this was a slightly more modern car than Matthew’s ancient VW Golf. She depressed the button and the glass rolled down. An elderly man with a stick stood waiting for his Scottie dog to finish sniffing a tree trunk.
“Scusi? Pardon! Donde é policia? Emergency! Policia?”
The old chap and his dog both looked up. The dog lost interest instantly, but the man continued to stare. Beatrice checked the lights. Still red. The old man. Still staring. With great deliberation, he pointed up the street to her right. He raised one finger and indicated a left with the opposite hand. The lights changed and an immediate blast of a horn sounded from behind. The old man continued, by holding up two fingers and indicating left again. He gave the thumbs-up just as she jerked forward from the impact of the SUV driving into her bumper. The old man’s jaw fell open.
She accelerated and swung into the right turn without indicating. Her eyes flicked to the mirror. She’d gained a second or two but they were approaching fast. She indicated right and slowed, watching for a gap in the traffic. She had to time it perfectly. A motorbike zoomed past, leaving a space before the taxi behind and Beatrice wrenched the wheel to the left. The taxi blared its horn and the driver stopped to gesticulate out of the window, blocking the path of the SUV. Second left. She hoped to God the old sod had given her the correct directions. The cacophony of horns and voices receded as she followed the curve and she checked the mirror to see how much time she had. Here they were.
She sped past the first left, conscious of the black shape growing in her peripheral vision, and screeched into the next street. He was right. She recognised the street up ahead and the forbidding façade of the police station. She checked the mirror to be sure. Much too close. She took a deep breath, mentally apologised to Jaime and slammed both feet to the floor. Her judgement may have been accurate and the BMW might have halted in time. She’d never know. Because three tons of Mercedes-Benz driving at forty-three kilometres per hour rammed her straight into the wall of the police station.
The airbag released, her seatbelt squashed her ribcage and all the air seemed to leave her lungs. A second of stillness. Then a metallic squeal pierced the silence and a reverse pull bounced her forwards. She banged her face on the steering wheel, bringing tears and blood to her eyes. Bile filled her mouth as she heard shouting. The shattered windscreen collapsed inwards. Her door opened and a man said something she didn’t understand. The SUV pulled past, gunned its engines and screeched off down a side street. A fresh volley of yells went up and a siren began wailing. The man released Beatrice’s seatbelt and eased her out of the car. She got to her feet, bloodied and shaking, and threw up all over her shoes.
As she submitted to an examination by the police medic, she prepared herself to face Detective Milandro. She knew how he was likely to perceive this situation. The interfering Brit crashes back into his life. Literally. She had to convince him to take her seriously. This was not simply an overactive imagination and excess of alcohol. She needed backup.
To her surprise, the medic didn’t breathalyse her. Instead, he squirted some clear gel onto a dressing and handed it to her.
“Keep this against your lip. The bleeding has stopped but this will prevent the swelling. You will have some more bruises. I leave you now. Good luck.”
“Thank you,” Beatrice mumbled. Once the door closed behind him, Beatrice reached for her handbag. What a mess. Tiny cubes of glass and brick dust lay in every fold of the leather, along with a dark greasy stain all over the bottom. Still, she should be grateful someone had thought to rescue it from the car. Keeping one hand pressed to her mouth, she carried the bag over to the bin, wincing at the pains in her chest and neck. She shook off the debris then dug around inside till she found what she was looking for. Her mobile and a business card. Jaime Rodriguez, Editor of El Periódico. With a glance at the door, she dialled.
“Rodriguez? Diga.”
“Hello, Jaime. This is Beatrice.”
“Beatrice? Beatrice! How’s your road trip going?”
His friendly voice offered a sense of sanctuary which swelled Beatrice’s throat so that she was unable to speak for several seconds.
“Beatrice? What’s the matter?”
She took a deep breath, which hurt. “Jaime, I’m afraid I have some bad news. Ana has disappeared. And I crashed your car.” She blurted out the story, managing to stay professional as she delivered the facts.
Jaime didn’t waste time. “Where are you now?”
“In Vitoria, at the police station. Could you come? Only I think I might need moral support.”
“Give me ten minutes.”
Twenty minutes later, she was still sitting alone in the medical room. The shock gradually subsided and all she had to focus on was worry and pain. She called Ana’s number every five minutes, but the phone was switched off. Flicking through her address book, her thumb hovered over James, but she decided against. Too complicated. Instead she selected Adrian.
He answered on the first ring. “Aha! You’re back. How did it go?”
“Oh Adrian. I am glad to hear your voice. Are you at the hotel? Is Matthew with you?”
“He’s just popped to the loo. We’re still in Ribera. I’m on the terrace sampling a rosé and admiring the scenery. We’ve got lots to tell you. When will you be back?”
Beatrice hesitated. “How far are you from Alava Exports?”
“Around a fifteen-minute walk. We were about to pay the bill here and call for a taxi back to Vitoria. We’ve had a marvellous afternoon. The tour was tremendous, let me tell you. And Spanish men! I had no idea! I fell in love three times today and at least two of these waiters meet with my approval.”
“Adrian, listen to me, this is important. Is there any way you can safely observe the Alava Exports site without being seen? I need you to watch for any activity over the next couple of hours.”
“Umm, I think so. What sort of activity are we lookin
g for?”
“Anything. The company should be finished for the day, so I want to know what goes on after hours. But Adrian ...”
“I know. Keep out of sight, do nothing, say nothing and just report back to you later.”
“I’d be most grateful. Shall we meet back at the hotel at eight?”
“See you then. Oh, how was your day?”
“Horrible. I lost Ana and I crashed the car into a police station.”
His gasp was genuine. “Oh my God! Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes. Right now I’m more worried about Ana than anything else.”
“We’ll come back and help.”
“No, you stay where you are. The police are already searching for her. The best thing you can do is keep an eye on that place. But please do it safely. Give my love to Matthew and tell him not to worry. Everything is under control.”
“OK, I will. Beatrice?”
“Yes?”
“Do take care.”
Detective Milandro opened the door and studied Beatrice.
“How are you feeling?”
Beatrice knew from experience the Spanish detective’s bland expression was not to be trusted, but his concern seemed real. “Shaken and bruised but mostly worried. Is there any news of Ana?”
“Not yet. But I have dispatched three teams to search. Your associate is here, from the newspaper.”
“Oh thank God.”
“I’d like to hear the story again and this time my boss wants to sit in. Would you come with me to an interview room?”
Beatrice got to her feet and took the dressing from her lip. “Of course. Detective, I know I’m a horn in your side, but I assure you I really am trying to do the right thing.”
His eyes narrowed, but his lips twitched in an impression of a smile.
“This interview, can Jaime come too?”
Milandro looked at her, his expression neutral. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
She nodded. He shrugged and led the way down the corridor.
Jaime seemed most dreadfully upset. Of course. Seeing the remains of his beloved vehicle being winched out of the wall must have come as a bit of a shock. While Milandro went to find his senior officer, Jaime’s hands shook and he looked as if he was about to cry.
“Jaime, I am so sorry about your car. Believe me, if there was any other way ...”
He gathered himself. “I don’t care about the BMW. It’s insured. And there are more important things to worry about. I’m just thankful you weren’t too badly hurt. Even so, you don’t look good. You’re so pale. Maybe you should eat something? Perhaps some chocolate? Did you take a coffee?”
“I’m fine, really. I know my face is a train wreck, but it’s not as bad as it looks. I’m just so worried about Ana. These men, if it is the same bunch, made some very unpleasant threats last time. They frightened Ana badly. They told her to leave Vitoria.”
“But she didn’t.” Jaime shook his head, a tired gesture.
“No, of course not. She’s a journalist. She could no more leave a story alone than a child could a scab. We found out a great deal today and I’m convinced we’ve been looking in the wrong direction. It’s not Aguirre himself who’s been ...”
The door opened. Milandro hesitated, his face dark and uncertain. Beatrice’s instinct screamed bad news.
“Ana?” she asked, her voice constrained.
He shook his head. “Nothing yet. Patrols have combed the site and alerted traffic police. A general bulletin has gone out across the region. But I just had news from the coroner which makes me very concerned for her welfare. The body of Miguel Saez surfaced this morning, in the lake near Garaio. The coroner suspects foul play. The cause of death was drowning, but his body had been mutilated before he died.”
Beatrice clutched her hands together, her eyes fixed on the detective. “Facially mutilated?”
Milandro’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. His mouth was slit to his ears.”
Jaime retched and staggered out of the door. Beatrice went to press her hands to her mouth but reconsidered. Instead she squeezed her eyes shut. Tiago’s nose, Miguel’s mouth. And Ana?
She looked up at the detective, unable to voice her plea. He understood.
“We’ll find her, Detective Inspector Stubbs. But I think you might need to tell me everything.”
Chapter 30
Tunçay’s chest constricted and his dry eyes opened. Shafts of sunlight penetrating the curtains showed the layers of smoke shifting around the bedsit. The connection between the smell of an ashtray and the taste in his mouth repulsed him. He never smoked in his room. It was disgusting. He was disgusting.
He swung his heavy legs off the bed and sat up. Fully clothed, stinking of cigarettes and with a hangover pounding at the door, he needed water. As he got to his feet, his lungs protested and a coughing fit forced him back onto the mattress. It also welcomed in his hangover. He stumbled to the tiny kitchenette and drank three glasses of water in succession, hands shaking and eyes watering. There had to be a word for what his stomach was doing but he couldn’t describe it, not in any language.
He opened all the windows, squinting into the low sunshine, and breathed some fresh air, which set off his cough once more. With an extreme effort not to vomit, he collected the empty bottles and full ashtray and tipped them into the bin. The stench of stale lager brought acidic bile to his throat and he stood with his head over the sink for several minutes. The wave receded.
Chill air freshened the room but turned his skin clammy. Tunçay grabbed his washbag and towel and unlocked the door, putting his faith in the power of hot, steamy water.
Forty minutes later, he was dressed, the flat was cleaner and he’d begun throwing his few belongings into his suitcase. Some decisions were clear. He would not leave Luz. But he would leave Burgos. Where to go was another question. Not Turkey. He wasn’t ready yet. Maybe he could get a job in Logroño and see Luz at weekends. He needed to talk to her before doing anything, but her phone went unanswered and his texts received no reply.
Maybe he should wait till Sunday and talk to her, face to face. He finished packing and ate a noodle soup. If he didn’t show up at the restaurant and kept his head down, he could take action in the next couple of weeks. No need to be hasty. After all, his rent was paid till the end of October. His phone rang.
Mehmet. Tunçay let it ring. What could he say? He was washing up his bowl when he heard something outside the front door. He stopped and held his breath. Nothing. He tiptoed across and looked through the spyhole. Nothing. He unlocked the door and slowly inched it open. On the doormat lay a magazine. Tunçay scanned the corridor. No one. He bent to pick it up. A tourist brochure: Turkey. A Country for all Tastes.
He left it there, locked the door and called Mehmet.
“I told you on the phone, the only place I will take you is the airport. You have to get on a plane and leave. Don’t piss me about, Tunçay. Listen, I’ve never seen Bulent scared of anything or anyone before. But this is serious. On the next flight if I have to drag you myself.”
“Mehmet, you’re not listening. I can’t leave yet. I can’t. I need to talk to someone and I can’t get her on the phone. I need to tell her what’s happening. I have to stay until at least Sunday.”
Mehmet didn’t reply. Tunçay recognised that expression of focusing on the task in hand. Whether it was mincing mutton, shelling fava beans or driving through midday traffic, Mehmet maintained his concentration.
“This is your university girl, I suppose? Yes, don’t look shocked, everyone knows. Deniz’s mother-in-law lives on the ground floor of your building so nothing is secret. By the way, she doesn’t mind the overnight guest but disapproves of you feeding the cat. Listen to me, Tunçay. For your girlfriend, this is a student romance, a bit of exotic while away from home, forgotten as soon as real life starts. You’ll get more loyalty from the cat. As soon as she goes back to her family, you’ll be dropped. Don’t risk yourself for a spoilt little princes
s. And remember, these people could make life very awkward for Bulent, for Deniz, for all of us.”
Tunçay stayed silent until the traffic began moving. “All right, I will go back to Turkey. At least for a while, till things settle down. But I must go to her residencia first. If I can’t leave her a message, I won’t go.”
Mehmet cleared his throat with something like a curse, but indicated towards the university. “Which way?”
“Left. Calle Francisco de Vitoria. Do you have a pen?”
Confident, loud laughter filled the open spaces as Tunçay moved through the lunchtime crowds of students. Everyone seemed to have a purpose and a right to be there. He reached into his jacket for the letter and reminded himself of his own purpose. Luz’s block was quieter than the main concourse, but he still felt an interloper as he stood in the doorway. Where were the mailboxes? Exposed and nervous, he turned away. He’d call. He’d send an email. What difference did a hand-written letter make? He knew exactly what difference it would make. He turned back.
The residencia door was wedged open. Perhaps the mailboxes were inside. Once over the threshold, he made a rapid decision. He would go to her room. Maybe leave the letter with her flatmate. He’d come this far, Mehmet was waiting, he had to act and get out. Her voice seemed to echo in his head, giving him directions as he ran up the stairs. He’d gone two doors past her room before he realised and retraced his steps, breathing heavily.
When he’d recovered his calm, which took longer than his breath, he knocked. The girl who opened the door looked familiar. Rita. The room-mate, the giggling customer, the uninteresting background to so many photographs featuring his beautiful Luz. Her expression was haughty, but curious.
