The Beatrice Stubbs Series Boxset One

by JJ Marsh

  “Marisol? Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. Basajaun’s waving goodbye. We’re going into Vitoria to meet Inez for lunch, maybe do some shopping. I’ve left you some food in the fridge.”

  “You’re taking him shopping? I thought he was home from school because he was sick.”

  “He had a temperature, that’s all. But he’s bored, hanging around the house, so I’ll take him with me to see his sister.”

  Aguirre considered his response. “You can take him to lunch today. Tomorrow, he goes to school. His education is vital, Marisol.”

  “So is his health. See you later.” She rang off.

  Aguirre watched the pair of them walk towards the Jaguar XK, Basajaun skipping and hopping and jumping about with his usual excess of energy. It was not good enough. Aguirre would wait until the weekend, letting her think he had forgotten, before making an announcement. Any future decisions regarding Basajaun’s attendance at school would be taken by him alone. The trouble with Marisol? She was used to bringing up girls. She’d done a good job, mostly. Paz and Inez already married and several possibilities lined up for Luz when she finished her studies. But his son’s destiny lay in the business. His education must be taken seriously. Time he assumed paternal control.

  Aguirre turned back to the two workers, who waited for his approval.

  “OK. I’m happy with the quality here. But this section needs frost protection while the vines are so young. That must be finished first.” He checked his watch. “Go and have some lunch. I’ll be back by two to supervise the process.”

  Left you some food in the fridge. Who did she think she was talking to? He would go out for lunch and use the opportunity to pay a visit. Striding back to the house, Aguirre debated whether to call first. He decided not. Surprise generally worked in his favour.

  His timing was perfect. Most of the staff at Alava Exports were already in the canteen, enabling him to enter the building unnoticed. The security guard and receptionist barely blinked at such a familiar face, simply smiled and wished him a good afternoon. The little secretary who defended her boss’s privacy like a yappy chihuahua was absent. No one to warn Angel Rosado of his approaching nemesis. Excellent.

  His son-in-law remained in his office, on the phone. His habit of standing and staring out the window while talking made it even easier to surprise him. Aguirre opened the door almost noiselessly. Almost. But Angel turned and recognised his visitor. His expression of alarm gave everything away.

  “I have to go, someone’s just walked in. Thanks for your advice and I’ll call you back later.”

  Angel extended a hand and forced an implausible smile. He was a dreadful actor. And Aguirre had seen a few. Some of the most painful evenings of his life had taken place during Marisol’s amateur theatre period.

  “Angel. How are you?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Our wives have decided to lunch together, so I thought you might be lonely. I’ve come to take you out. We’ll go somewhere nice and have a chat.”

  Angel looked down, his long lashes hiding his eyes. “That’s a kind gesture, but today I planned to eat in the canteen. Show my face to the workers, you know?”

  Aguirre nodded his approval. “An excellent idea. Good to break bread with the staff once in a while. You can do that tomorrow. Come. You’ll need a jacket, the wind is sharp.”

  Everything about Angel irritated Aguirre. His fastidious way of dressing, his constantly miserable expression, the grateful smile he gave to the waiter who handed him the menu, not to mention his spineless capitulation to everything his wife demanded. True, Inez was a forceful opponent. Aguirre himself recalled stand-up screaming confrontations even when she was a child. But he always got the upper hand and she respected him for that. Angel let her win. That was a mistake and he would never regain her respect. Weak. No wonder everyone despised him, including his wife.

  “We’ll have the Menú del día. Revuelto de setas, txipirones, and the house white.” Scrambled egg with mushrooms, followed by squid in its own ink. Aguirre handed the menu back without looking, waiting for Angel to protest. His son-in-law always had a bad reaction to mushrooms and disliked the way the black ink stained his teeth. But Angel shrugged his acquiescence and asked for some water. His every movement invited bullying. He only had himself to blame.

  “By the way, you haven’t yet congratulated me,” said Aguirre, flicking out his napkin.

  Angel’s wince showed he understood, but he faked an innocent enquiry. “With so many successes to admire, where do I start?”

  So slimy, so false. It was hard to believe the man was a Spaniard.

  Aguirre ignored the sycophancy. “I’m to be a grandfather, for the second time. Paz is due the end of April. As you can imagine, Marisol is deliriously happy.”

  “Congratulations. That was quick. Surely Ramón isn’t one yet?”

  “No. His first birthday, as you well know, is this Thursday. Don’t forget the party starts at twelve, with lunch at two. So Paz and Guido’s children will only be eighteen months apart, which I believe is a very good thing.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you say that, when there’s such a huge gap between the girls and Basajaun.”

  “Not surprising at all. I was determined to have a son. That took a little longer.”

  A silence swelled, punctured by the waiter’s arrival with a carafe of house white and a bottle of water.

  Aguirre sent back the wine and ordered a bottle of his own produce, Castelo de Aguirre Blanco. Not the best on the menu, but he was making a point. A point Angel, despite his limited intelligence, would recognise.

  “As for my grandchildren,” he continued, “wouldn’t it be wonderful if they had cousins of a similar age?”

  Angel didn’t reply, looking around the room, as if the answer lay with one of their fellow diners.

  Aguirre dropped his voice and adopted an expression of concern, such as might be worn by a prurient chat show host. “I mean, there’s no problem, is there? You know Marisol and I would do anything we could to help.”

  The boy shook his head. “I don’t think anything is wrong. It just hasn’t happened yet.”

  Aguirre kept his eyes on him, waiting for something more.

  Angel changed the subject. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something. I still don’t know whether you resolved the problem with the paperwork. I haven’t heard anything more from Saez, but other people have been asking questions.”

  The waiter placed a basket of bread and two dishes of scrambled egg in front of them. Aguirre gave him a curt nod of dismissal and tore into a roll.

  “The paperwork issue is no more. A typical example of a minion getting carried away beyond his brief. The company have assured me it won’t happen again. And in turn, you will promise me that next time you have an external audit, you talk to the organ-grinder. Not the monkey.”

  “Of course, I promise. Although I had no idea he was a trainee. What about that journalist? He told me a missing person’s report was filed on Saez.” Angel’s eyes scanned Aguirre’s face.

  “Nonsense. The company relocated him, at my request.”

  “Relocated? Do you know where?”

  “I don’t recall. Somewhere out in the sticks, they said. I expect he left a young woman behind, who can’t believe she’s been dropped. Far more romantic, not to mention kinder on the ego, to invent a disappearance. Anyway, where he went is immaterial. He’s gone and that journalist is unlikely to return. So if anyone else asks, send them directly to me. Eat your lunch, Angel, it’s why we’re here. Perhaps that is part of your problem. You’re not eating right.”

  Angel blinked at his plate and dabbed at the oily, eggy mess with some bread. His voice was weak, pathetic.

  “As I said, I’m not aware of a problem. I think it’s simply a question of time.”

  “Maybe.” Aguirre poured the wine, studying the colour before raising his glass to his nose. He inhaled deeply and allowed the light fruits, the clean flowers and hints of g
reen to fill his nostrils. He opened his eyes and held his glass toward Angel.

  “Topa! And here’s to future successes. For both of us.”

  “Topa. To success,” Angel responded with minimal enthusiasm, but held his glass steady for the chinking.

  Aguirre sipped at his wine, pleased with the light effervescence and lively body. This could hold its own against Portuguese vinho verde any day. He trained his eyes on Angel.

  “A question of time. Yes, it’s possible you’re right. So let’s give it until Christmas and then we’ll look at the problem again.”

  Angel stared into his wine, the downward pull of his mouth reflecting the rim of the glass. Aguirre lifted a forkful of mushroom and smiled. He was rather looking forward to the rest of lunch.

  Chapter 4

  Beatrice stood in the doorway of the Residencia, handbag over her arm, cardigan slung over her summer dress and sore feet slipped into brand new flip-flops. Ana, wearing jeans, held out a helmet.

  “It’s a moped.”

  Ana shook her head. “That’s like saying an Aston Martin is a car. This is a Vespa. A design classic and lifestyle statement. And the only way to travel in the city. Shall we go?”

  “I didn’t realise this would be our mode of transport. I’m not exactly dressed for motorbike riding. Do you think I should change?”

  “Not at all. I’ve ridden this in a skirt before. So long as you can get your leg over, it’s just a question of tucking yourself in. Come on, let’s get going. When I lean, you follow, OK?”

  With a deep breath, Beatrice wedged the helmet over her head, swung her leg over and ensured she was decent. The bike’s engine whizzed up like a lawnmower and she grasped Ana’s waist as they sped forward into the traffic. It was exhilarating, dodging in and out of lanes, creeping between queues of cars to be the first at the lights. The limitations of four wheels did not apply to the little bike. The wide leather seat was comfortable and despite her exposure, Beatrice felt surprisingly safe. In fact, she enjoyed the sense of being right in the middle of things. If only Matthew could see her. Actually, probably best he couldn’t.

  Ana bumped up onto the pavement in front of an apartment building, switched off the engine and pulled down the stand with her heel.

  “This is Tiago’s place. He lives at the top.”

  “You’re allowed to park it on the pavement?” Beatrice heaved off her helmet, choosing not to worry about what had happened to her hair.

  “You can park a Vespa anywhere. Let’s go.”

  Ana rang Tiago’s bell first and they both waited with a strange sense of anticipation. No reply. She didn’t try a second time. Instead, she pressed her finger on the bell directly beneath. When a male voice answered, Ana spoke in Spanish. Beatrice listened, clueless, but impressed at how many syllables per minute the girl could manage. The buzzer sounded and Ana pushed open the door. She stopped and looked into Beatrice’s eyes.

  “You’re a British writer, OK? Your book is about European journalism and you’re following me around to learn how it works. I’ll translate and you can tell me what questions I should ask.”

  Beatrice responded with an obedient nod.

  Ana looked back again. “And if they believe that, they’ll believe anything. You’ve got police stamped all over you. Well, nothing we can do about that now.”

  Gregorio Torres opened his apartment door wearing a black T-shirt, stonewashed jeans and a bad-tempered scowl. He appeared to be late twenties, tall and well-built. His dark colouring and deep eyes could have been attractive, but a heavy jaw tilted him into Desperate Dan territory. As he surveyed Ana, the scowl lifted, only to return when he spotted Beatrice. He shot several questions at Ana and a few dirty looks at Beatrice, before leaning against the door frame, arms folded.

  Ana took out her notebook and began asking questions. Without turning, she relayed the information to Beatrice.

  “He saw Tiago on Saturday – talked about football – seemed normal – wasn’t here on Sunday so didn’t see or hear him at all.”

  “Where was he if not here?” asked Beatrice and waited while Ana translated. He raised his eyebrows at her, but answered the question.

  “In his family’s village. It was the day of the txoko. It’s a Basque custom where all the men get together and cook a meal for everyone,” Ana said.

  “What a lovely idea!” exclaimed Beatrice.

  Gregorio looked at her in surprise and a slow smile softened his expression. He nodded.

  “Yes,” he said, in English. “It is.”

  Ana glanced at Beatrice before firing off several more questions in Spanish. He answered with more openness but as Beatrice could see from Ana’s expression, no useful information was forthcoming. Finally, Ana shook his hand and said her goodbyes. Gregorio politely extended his hand to Beatrice. She shook it and made an effort. “Muchas gracias.”

  “You’re welcome,” he replied.

  On the way down the stairs, Ana seemed despondent.

  “So Gregorio didn’t come home on Sunday and went straight to work from his village. He has no idea if Tiago was here on Sunday night or not. No one else is likely to know. Tiago’s is the only flat on the top floor.”

  “The penthouse?” asked Beatrice.

  “More like the attic,” Ana replied. “We may as well try a couple more, you never know,” she added, pressing the bell on the next landing. As they waited, Ana looked sideways at Beatrice.

  “Guess what Gregorio does for a living?” she whispered.

  Beatrice thought. “From first impressions, I’d have him down as a truck mechanic. No, maybe a cattle brander. Well, something rough and tough, anyway. The lead singer in the Spanish equivalent of Status Quo?”

  “Tut, tut. For a detective, your powers of observation are shocking. Did you not see his hands?”

  Someone moved behind the door and the sounds of locks rattled.

  Beatrice turned to Ana. “No, I didn’t. He kept them folded under his armpits. Why?”

  Ana’s smile lifted her cheeks into russet apples. “He’s a manicurist.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Hard as nails.” The door opened. “Buenas dias, Doña Llorente!”

  Dismounting the Vespa outside El Papagaio, Beatrice handed her helmet to Ana and tried once again to brush the dog hair from her dress. Tiago’s neighbours had been little use, and the interviews, mostly conducted at front doors, had proved surprisingly tiring. Beatrice’s frustration at being excluded from the conversation and having to wait for Ana to translate tested her patience. On top of which, the asthmatic woman with the dogs had the most grating voice Beatrice could ever remember hearing. Worse still, it was obvious that she rarely had a captive audience, so she’d made the most of it.

  “So, apart from the fact that woman can talk faster than I ever thought possible, I understood very little of what Doña Llorente was saying. But I gather she saw him on Sunday.”

  “Yes, and you were right to suggest the step-by-step approach. I could literally see her remembering. She gave me a lot of details. He was dressed to kill, as she put it, he was in a hurry, tearing out the door, but stopped to give her a present, those flowers. She had no doubts about the time, either. Just after seven o’clock.”

  “And he sent you a text at what time exactly?”

  Ana didn’t need to check. “Nineteen minutes past. As you saw, the bar is a ten-minute walk from his place.”

  Beatrice thought about it. A bunch of yellow roses. She doubted Tiago had bought them for his asthmatic neighbour. Did he change his mind?

  Ana locked the bike and turned to face the restaurant. “Here we go.”

  The interior was lively; groups of people chatting at tables, a crowd at the bar and half a dozen men standing watching football on a small television set high in the corner. Two young women threaded their way through the patrons, carrying trays of beer, carafes of wine and some intriguing-looking snacks.

  Ana made straight for the bar, where a jowly man
in his sixties was pouring a beer. She beckoned Beatrice to join her.

  “Hola, Enrique! Can I introduce you to a friend of mine? This is Beatrice and she’s a journalist for a travel magazine. I told her to talk to you.” She turned to Beatrice. “No one knows Basque cuisine like Enrique.”

  Enrique beamed and wiped his hands on a cloth. “Hola, Ana. And hello, Ana’s friend, Beatrice. Take a seat and I’ll join you in a minute.” He waved at an empty table towards the front of the room, away from the sighs and groans below the TV set.

  At least ninety percent of the men in the bar watched Ana walk to their table. Some even tore their eyes away from the football. She ignored them and sat with her back to the window. She hoicked one foot up to rest on the opposite knee and dropped her voice.

  “Enrique’s a good guy. And when it comes to the food and drink of the region, he’ll talk the ears off you.”

  “Sounds like we might get along. Although I do wish you’d warn me as to my undercover roles a bit earlier. Acting’s never been my strong point.”

  “But asking questions and eating will give you no bother. Here he comes.”

  Enrique joined them with a tray bearing glasses, two carafes of wine; one white, one red, and a selection of tiny canapés.

  Beatrice smiled. “Ana tells me you are an expert on local dishes.”

  “Not an expert. The expert. I know the best restaurants in San Sebastian, the best wines from the Rioja and the best recipes from Bilbao to Vitoria. What do you want to know?”

  Ana’s expression was pleasantly enquiring and innocent, a match for Enrique’s. Beatrice was on her own. Enrique opened his hands, offering his knowledge to her on a plate.

  “Well, for a start, can you tell me what these are?” she said, pointing to the little snacks on the tray.