by JJ Marsh
“Tired. Bone-weary. Despite James and a full hour of therapy. You might be right, you know. I do need a holiday. And funnily enough, I think I need some more cake. Shall we?”
Upstairs, Beatrice’s laptop glowed into life, emitting a blue luminosity in the empty room. A pop-up box flashed onto the screen, where it remained for thirty seconds.
One message received.
The box shrank to a small envelope, blinking in the bottom right-hand corner, leaving the last document visible.
Dear Superintendent Hamilton
It is with regret that I hereby tender my notice.
After many fulfilling years spent with the force, I have a duty to maintain the standards of excellence for which we strive.
After careful consideration of my performance in the two most recent cases to which I was assigned, I believe I have made serious errors of judgement, endangering both fellow officers and members of the public.
I now see myself as more of a liability than an asset, and therefore choose to leave my position as Detective Inspector after the formal notice period has elapsed.
On a personal note, I would like to thank you for your unstinting support and patient interest in my development.
I wish you, my colleagues and the Metropolitan Police Force every success in the future.
Yours sincerely
Beatrice Stubbs
Tread Softly
Chapter 1
The bells struck seven. Tiago was late. Taking a last swig of Estrella Galicia for luck, he gathered keys, mobile, jacket, the CD and the flowers. Were roses too much? Maybe if they were red, signalling an obvious agenda. But yellow should be innocent enough. No, leave them, it’s embarrassing. No, take them, it’s a lovely gesture. Yellow rosebuds could signify the start of something.
Gazing into the fragrant whorls was only making him later, definitely a negative message on a first date. He ran out the door, leaping the stairs three at a time. On the second landing, Doña Llorente, complete with shopping, dogs and inhaler, blocked his path. He greeted her with a wave, the spaniels with a pat, and on impulse, thrust the flowers into her hand.
With a gallant bow, he slipped past before she got her breath back. He hit the street and recognised a smart decision. Ana wouldn’t want flowers. Independent music with quirky artwork, perhaps, but no old-fashioned gestures. The right choice. Saved from cliché and into Doña Llorente’s good books.
His instinct to reach for a cigarette was countered by a desire for fresh breath. At least for the greeting kisses. His smile spread as he recalled the email. Not only word for word, but every single character.
Meet me @ El Papagaio on Sunday, 19.00.
Let’s NOT talk about work. Ax.
One extra letter. An X. Its effect was disproportionate, but still. Ana Luisa Herrero had sent him a kiss. It had taken him an hour and a half to compose a reply, and another fifteen minutes debating the pros and cons of adding a kiss.
OK. Looking forward to it. Tx
He sped up, almost breaking into a run.
The uplight illuminated a cartoonish parrot, painted in primary colours, as he approached the door. A solitary smoker stood outside, leaning against an empty table. He didn’t return Tiago’s Buenas tardes.
The restaurant was unusually empty. But Tiago only ever came in here on week nights after work, so had no idea about the bar’s weekend trade. Two men sitting at a corner table looked up and nodded. The only other person was a barman Tiago didn’t recognise. Strange not to see Enrique. Perhaps he didn’t work weekends.
But most importantly, Ana was later than him. Relieved, he sat facing the door. He would order two beers. Or should he wait? No, he needed a drink. And maybe some olives, mainly to give him something to do with his hands. He sent her a rapid text message.
The barman approached, unsmiling.
“Two beers and a ...”
“She’s in the back.” He jerked his head towards the rear of the room.
Tiago glanced in the same direction and frowned.
The barman shrugged. “She said you should go in the back. She’s waiting.”
Tiago scrambled from his seat, confused. In all the time he’d been coming here, he’d never been ‘in the back’. He didn’t even know there was another room. Was it the same sort of ‘back room’ as the one in Gatos? Everyone knew what went on in that kind of place. He got up and followed the barman’s louche stroll. He knew he was being watched.
The lack of clientele, the new barman, the silence ... something felt wrong. He stopped. The front door opened and the smoker returned, locking the door behind him. Tiago’s pulse pounded as the barman pressed a hand to his shoulder, guiding him firmly through the door. When he resisted, he was shoved forwards, falling across the jamb onto all fours. Fear shot through his veins like acid as he tried to make out where he was.
A door opened ahead of him, blue light and cold air spilling into the dark corridor. The fridge room. His scalp contracted as he saw the chair inside, with attachments. Every nerve urged him to run, but he had no idea which way. He pushed himself to his feet and turned to face the men behind him.
“What’s going on? What do you want?”
Without answering, they moved forwards. He attempted to duck past, tripped over rubbish bags and landed on the floor.
They dragged him to his feet and into the fridge. He twisted and bucked like a fish on a line, but the smoker and barman wrestled him into the chair. His arms were cuffed behind him, his legs spread and secured at knees and ankles with leather straps. Shallow breaths made small panicky clouds in the cold air as he tried to keep from shaking. He heard the suction of the closing door. He scanned the four unfamiliar faces, searching for an explanation. The two older men from the corner table were relaxed and unhurried. One had a missing forefinger, the other’s face sagged on one side. A pair of tough old tomcats. The smoker and the barman, both built like bulls, wore identical tense expressions. Muscle, no doubt. But who the hell would send four heavies after him? And where did Ana fit in?
His voice was unsteady. “Look, I don’t know what the problem is, but we can work something out, I’m sure. Please, can we talk? What have I done?”
No one moved.
The greyer of the tomcats spoke. His voice was hoarse and creaky, as if it didn’t get out much.
“No, Tiago. No more talking. That is part of your problem. You were warned. Twice. There is no third chance.” He motioned to the smoker, who handed something to the barman. A pair of garden shears. They both donned plastic gloves.
Tiago shook his head, unable to speak, blinking to clear his vision. He had no idea what warnings he was talking about. No one had tried to dissuade him from pursuing Ana. His colleagues even encouraged him. Were these men some Portuguese relatives come to defend her honour? He hadn’t even kissed her yet.
“You see, Tiago, it’s like gambling. Only join the game if you can afford to take the losses.”
Two figures approached, but through his flooded eyes, he could no longer differentiate between individuals. As he rocked and yanked against his restraints, he squeezed his lids shut and screamed, a desperate howl bouncing off white-tiled walls and indifferent ears. When his lungs could produce nothing more than hyperventilating gasps, the hoarse and rasping voice came to its conclusion.
“When a man sticks something where he shouldn’t, he must be prepared to lose it.”
Chapter 2
The smell of flesh was giddying. Chorizo, sausage, cecina and air-dried hams hung overhead; pintxos arrayed on the bar looked like individual works of art, spiked anchovies, layered peppers, tortilla slices and salted cod vying for attention; and the glass of Txakoli, wearing a light coat of condensation, reflected the sunshine streaming through the windows.
Beatrice sighed with anticipation. It was very hard to make a decision. She gazed at the shoppers on Calle de Edouardo Dato and caught her reflection in the glass door. Good God, she looked almost happy! An involuntary smile; things mu
st be improving. She showed the barman her snacks, although the quantity stretched the definition of the word, and settled into a leather banquette to enjoy her lunch.
Content to observe the patrons and eavesdrop on the intriguing sounds of Basque, she chose not to pick up her novel, her guidebook or her map. The bar seemed a popular location for workmen, who stayed mere minutes, washing down their tapas with beer or cups of wine. She enjoyed the respectful nods she received from each new wave of diners and began to feel quite at home.
Meal over, she lined up her toothpicks so the barman could count them and charge her accordingly. It reminded her of Go Sushi! in Hoxton, another ‘healthy’ place which cruelly tempted diners into over-indulgence. Thoughts of home swelled a dull yearning. Not homesickness. Not nostalgia. Just an ache for the familiar. How absurd. She’d only been in Spain a week.
She ordered another glass of rosé, picked up her phone and dialled the Classics and Ancient History Department of Exeter University. Hang the expense, she needed to hear his voice.
“Professor Bailey, good afternoon?”
“Hello Matthew, it’s me.”
“Beatrice? Are you all right?”
“Absolutely. Only phoning to make you jealous. I’ve just finished the most wonderful lunch in a Spanish bar. They have these tapas things, but bigger. I’ve never seen such imaginative use of anchovies.”
His relief was audible. “You are a truly heartless woman. I’m sitting here, grading first-year essays, grinding my teeth and weeping. These people use apostrophes as decoration, scattering them across their texts like glitter. And for my lunch, I had tinned ravioli.”
Beatrice gave a belly laugh and checked to see if she was disturbing other diners. But all heads were turned in the opposite direction. A young brunette walked through the gaggle of blue-clad workers, ignoring their undisguised ogling and semi-audible comments. She spotted Beatrice and, with a friendly smile, seated herself at the bar.
Beatrice returned her attention to Matthew. “Now I know you’re lying. You would never eat tinned ravioli.”
“Ordinarily not. However, I was babysitting Luke this morning and he baulked at what his mother had provided for his lunch. Seemed a shame to waste it. But now I understand the poor little chap’s reservations. Hideous slop. He made short work of my carrot soup instead. You see, my grandson already shows excellent taste. How are you enjoying ... where are you now? Santander?”
“Vitoria-Gasteiz today. And tomorrow. Glorious. I’ve barely even scratched the surface, so I think I’ll hang on for a couple of days. Rest my feet.”
The brunette, quite unmistakeably, was listening. Not only that, but watching Beatrice in the mirror. Her long hair, like a chocolate waterfall, cascaded down a suede shirt. The textures lent a softness to her unapproachable air.
“Oh dear. You need to go easy on the feet, at your age. Have you seen the Artium yet?”
“It’s not my feet, it’s my shoes. Blisters. And anyway, I’m all arted out after the Guggenheim. The Artium’s on the agenda for tomorrow. Tonight I’m meeting a connection of Tanya’s, the exchange student, pen-friend, whatever she is. She stayed with us one summer, remember?”
“Of course. Andrea Something?
“Ana Something. Lord knows if I’ll recognise her. Last time I saw her, she was all elbows and knees with a mouth full of metal. She’s taking me for parillada de mariscos.”
He exhaled. “How I wish I could join you. My particular weakness is fresh seafood. But envy, I remind myself, is a deadly sin. Now, it’s mid-afternoon and your calling me via mobile is ruinously expensive. Enjoy your siesta and I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Are you keeping out of trouble, Old Thing?”
“Believe me, I am the picture of innocence. Everything is fine, Matthew, and I’m enjoying a rest from it all. Love to the girls and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Very well. Hurry back, in your own time.”
She smiled and ended the call. Before she even replaced the handset in her bag, the dark-haired girl had approached, standing opposite. Her expression was expectant.
“Beatrice Stubbs.” The accent disconcerted Beatrice, evoking more of an Irish Colleen than a Spanish Carmen. Her face, open and intelligent, bore signs of tension in the upper lip and brow.
“Correct. And you are ...?”
“Ana Something.” She smiled.
“Good Lord.” Beatrice assessed the soft skin, straight white teeth and elegant proportions. The laughter in the girl’s eyes gave the only clue to the gauche exchange student she had met nine years earlier.
“Or Ana Luisa Herrero, if you want the whole story.” She held out her hand. Beatrice shook it, still lost for words.
Ana slid into the seat opposite, rested her elbows on the table and looked into Beatrice’s eyes. “Guess how I found you?”
“I’ve no idea. Sniffer dog?”
The girl laughed, drawing attention from the whole bar. “I’m a journalist. Getting information out of people is my speciality. It’s good to see you again. Must be, what, ten years? But I remember you very well. Mainly because you didn’t patronise us and enjoyed good food. And because you were a police detective with the London Met. Apart from an air hostess, I couldn’t think of a cooler job.”
Beatrice recovered her voice. “Well, I thought I remembered you, but I would never have recognised that girl ...”
“... all elbows and knees with a mouth full of metal? Ah, don’t worry. Serves me right. I shouldn’t have been earwigging.”
“Earwigs never hear good of themselves. No, what I wanted to say is that you have blossomed into a genuine beauty, Ana. And you wear it well.”
“Cheers. Anyway, I went to your hotel. A stranger in Vitoria is going to ask for tapas recommendations, right? I spoke to the receptionist and tracked you down.”
“Congratulations. But while I applaud your skill, I can’t help asking myself why you would bother? We have an appointment this evening, and I feel sure I gave you my mobile number in case of difficulties. Why did you need to track me here?”
The girl’s face darkened, her focus turned inward and her whole body seemed to sag.
“Beatrice, I’m after your help. And I needed to explain to you in person. A colleague and I have been working on a particular story. We think we’ve found something suspicious. The problem is that he’s disappeared.”
“Your colleague?”
Ana nodded, her jaw clenched. “We all had a drink together after work on Friday. But this morning, he didn’t turn up for work and missed the weekly update. I had to busk it on his behalf. I’ve called him and been round to his apartment, but there’s no reply.”
“Well, it’s only just after lunchtime. Maybe he took the morning off.”
“He’d have let me know. He’s not the type to drop a colleague in it.”
Beatrice considered. A young man, a journalist. Rarely the sort to inform colleagues when chasing a story, or anything else. Missing for under twenty-four hours. No police force in the world would even blink. Young people could be so very naïve.
She adopted a conciliatory expression but before she could reply, Ana continued.
“Yes, I know. I’ve already been to the station and the local guys won’t touch it. But I know something is wrong. I got a text message from him on Sunday evening.” She slid her phone from her breast pocket and focused on finding the message.
She turned the screen towards Beatrice.
“HA! Estoy aquí - EP. SM, OK? Tx
Beatrice rubbed her eyes. Surely she should be dozing in her hotel room rather than listening to a flighty female who’d had a dust-up with a boyfriend speaking in code.
Ana explained. “HA means Hola Ana. Estoy aquí means I’m here and EP probably stands for our favourite bar, El Papagaio. SM, OK? Is San Miguel OK for you?”
“Ana. He expected you for a date, you didn’t turn up and he’s probably sulking. Men tend to do that.”
“But listen. There was no date. I spent the weekend in t
he mountains. We hadn’t made any arrangements for Sunday night. And now, he’s completely vanished. No one will take this seriously but I feel something’s very wrong. Please, humour me. The first twenty-four hours are crucial, I know that from my experience on the crime desk. Time’s slipping away. I need to think like a cop. And I have one right in front of me. Would you at least give me some pointers? Where would you start?”
The girl wasn’t mad, just desperate. Beatrice recognised the conviction in the deep brown eyes. She dropped her voice below the labourers’ banter and the sounds of Shakira from the speakers.
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“Tiago Vínculo. Hence the Tx at the end of the message. Which is also weird.”
“Why?”
“Tiago never puts kisses on his messages.”
“Maybe it was a slip of the thumb,” Beatrice suggested.
Ana linked her hands together and rested her chin on her knuckles.
“The thing is, I get a lot of attention, from men, because of the way I look. My mum was Portuguese and my dad’s Irish. Guess they gave me good genes. I grew up in Ireland and encountered more than my fair share of charmers who turned out to be chancers. So I’ve learnt to be suspicious of male friends, you know, alert for any hidden intentions. For that reason, I never make empty gestures, like adding kisses to my signature, telling people I love them, or anything which could be misinterpreted. My mantra is, only do it if you mean it. My friends all know that and I expect the same from them. So why would Tiago, one of my best friends, suddenly choose to send me a kiss?”
Beatrice recognised the habitual tug of curiosity. Pieces of a puzzle and the old urge to find out the meaning behind the fragments. Ideas began bubbling. Why not? She could offer Ana some advice. After all, what harm could it do?
“Right. Let’s see what we can do. But first things first, I need to buy some comfy shoes.”
Chapter 3
“Papí! Papí!”
Arturo de Aguirre straightened from his inspection of the young vines. He lifted his head towards the sound of his son’s voice, shielding his eyes against the low October sun. Basajaun was waving from the garden terrace at the top of the vineyard. As Aguirre waved back, he saw his wife join the boy, her mobile to her ear. His phone rang, so he moved a few paces away from his waiting workers to take her call.