by JJ Marsh
Dark green baize flooring muffled the sounds of footfalls, establishing gravitas. The much-debated backdrop, an artist’s rendering of vineyards, hinted at taste, discretion and subtlety. Three wide steps invited one in, the carved stone bar, gilded tables and chairs with blood-red cushions offered a sense of luxury, and the final touch – welcoming smiles from Paz and Inez. Neither of his daughters could be described as young or beautiful, but their knowledge of the product was second only to his own. Behind the bar, two of his most respected tasters, whose ancient faces resembled the gargoyles on the granite, poured samples and advised visitors. The cumulative effect needed no shrieking logo. Quite simply, here was the real thing. Old World wine, Old World style.
The ebb and flow of guests remained constant during the day, easily managed by the four representatives of the estate, leaving Aguirre to mingle and network. Occasionally he spent an hour or so on the stand. As well as giving the punters an opportunity to meet the man himself, it meant one of the others could take a break, refill the brochure racks, open more bottles, clean glasses and rearrange the furniture. His appearance always guaranteed a swell of interest, not least from the international wine journalists, who appeared with tedious regularity to trot out the same unimaginative questions.
Paz escorted a pair of buyers down the steps, shaking hands and smiling, before turning her attention to her father. Her hair, swept into a French pleat, was a complex arrangement of blonde highlights sprayed into submission.
“Good lunch?” she asked.
“Outstanding.” Aguirre lowered himself into a gilded chair, feeling sleepy and satisfied. “In the eyes of the Denominacion de Origen, I can do no wrong. Everything going well here?”
Paz checked the stand, her eyes sharp. “Yes. That woman over there is a British importer. Inez’s English is better than mine, so she dealt with her. I took the Valencians. They placed a decent order for next year’s Crianza. The couple at the bar are time-wasters, in my opinion. I’ll relieve Salbatore in a minute and get rid of them.”
Aguirre smiled, confident his daughter’s hard-sell charm would chase off the most persistent freeloader. Paz began wiping tables, reorganising displays and restoring the stand to its usual immaculate condition. All the time he watched her, she watched everything else. Nothing escaped her attention; her father, her sister, the employees, the punters. She reminded him of a hawk, scanning her terrain, ready to swoop. They were good girls. Real assets. At least two of his daughters took after him. Luz, unfortunately, had inherited her mother’s stubborn streak. An Aguirre girl at university; it was absurd, indulgent and a waste of time. Yet Marisol seemed to be as proud of Luz reading law as she was of her first grandson. Occasionally he regretted marrying such a short-sighted woman.
His phone rang. Aguirre answered, irritation already in place. As he listened to the hoarse tones relaying the latest, his frown deepened and his jaw muscles tensed. His impatience grew until he could take it no longer.
“Basta! Enough! Take him a case of wine. Tell him to forget it. He knows nothing and there’s nothing to know. The situation has been resolved and a pair of scavenging dogs looking for scraps is no cause for concern. I’ll make sure he’s not bothered again. All he needs to do is keep quiet and talk to no one. Be friendly, but let him know we expect him to keep his head. In fact, say exactly those words; we hope he can keep his head. That should shut him up.”
Aguirre ended the call and scowled. Paz checked his expression and obviously misinterpreted it. She stalked across to the bar, dismissed both bar staff and stretched back her lips in an alarming smile. The bird of prey was on the hunt.
“Señor Aguirre?”
Before he’d even turned his head, Aguirre knew it was a journalist. This one was typical. Too-long hair and dressed in a cheap suit, he had the eager optimism of someone new to the job. The only point of any interest was the camera crew.
Aguirre stood with a charming smile. “Yes, I’m Arturo de Aguirre. How can I help?”
Lights arranged, furry sound boom in position, cameras and faces pointing in his direction drew more attention from passers-by than usual. A shiny sheen of sweat appeared on the journalist’s brow as he checked his equipment. The boy needed to relax; after all, he was dealing with a professional. Aguirre signalled to Paz for one of the cheaper bottles, and with a circular gesture, requested glasses for the whole party. Not only articulate, accessible and an excellent interviewee, but generous. An all-round good guy.
“So, Señor Aguirre, we’re all set. Oh, good idea!” the journalist exclaimed as Paz set the wine on the table between them. “We should have an example of the famous product in shot.”
“Please make sure all our guests are served, my dear,” said Aguirre, nodding at the crew. He returned the appreciative smiles. His mobile vibrated silently against his ribcage, but he ignored it.
Wine served, the young man addressed Aguirre. “I’d like to begin by asking you about the product, its history and finally ask your views on how you explain its amazing popularity. Is that OK?”
“You’re the boss,” responded Aguirre, despite all the evidence to the contrary.
The few curious onlookers had built to a small crowd, all stretching and leaning to get a better view of one of Spain’s best-known icons. The camera operator counted down and, with a quick wipe of his face, the greenhorn began.
“One of the greatest Spanish success stories of the past few years has been the rise of white Rioja. Once the poor cousin to Spain’s flagship red, one vineyard has championed the white Viura grape and boosted demand, both domestic and foreign, for this fresh, citrusy wine. Castelo de Aguirre is the brand which has come to represent the renaissance of the region’s white wine.
“Today, we’re lucky to interview the viniculturist himself, the man behind the brand, Arturo de Aguirre. Thank you for talking to us, Señor Aguirre.”
Aguirre dropped his voice to a more authoritative register. “Happy to oblige. Every opportunity to spread the word is welcome.”
“Can you begin by telling us about white Rioja? What makes it so special?”
Aguirre angled himself towards his interviewer, projecting his voice past the microphone towards the knot of observers. “Everything. From nose to palate to finish, this is an exceptional wine which can stand comparison with any Australian Chardonnay or Californian Sauvignon Blanc. Not only can it compete with the wines of the New World, but it takes on French Chablis, Portuguese vinho verde and Italian Pinot Grigio.”
The journalist took a breath for his next question but Aguirre anticipated him.
“You’re going to ask me why? Good question. Tastes change. For the past two decades, we have seen a trend to the fruit-focused, crowd-pleasing, oaky whites. Easy to drink, higher in alcoholic content and even the driest has a sweetness on the palate. Wines such as our neighbours’ Verdejo or Albariño also favour this tropical fruit robustness. Add to this accessible taste the power of New World marketing, and you understand why the traditional white has fallen out of favour.”
Inexperienced he may have been, but the boy recognised his cue. “But white Rioja is now one of the most popular wines in Europe, grabbing a huge slice of market share from other white wines. Where did this sudden interest in traditional whites spring from?”
Aguirre gave an understanding nod. “Another good question. To find the answer, we must look backwards. Rioja, in contemporary public perception, stands for fine red wine. It was not always so. In the nineteenth century, the region was famous for its white wine. Have you ever asked yourself why red wine is described in Spanish as viño tinto? Tinted wine? Not as in other countries: rouge, rosso, red or negre? Because the majority of the region’s output was white and as a result, subject to higher tax. So the wily viniculturists added a ‘tint’ of red to their best-selling whites, avoiding tax and spreading the name of Rioja all over the globe.”
A murmur rustled through the onlookers. Not only was he an entertaining speaker, but he taught them somet
hing as well. He kept his eyes on the journalist.
“Fascinating. So why has the general public, not only at home, but abroad, embraced white Rioja again?”
“If I knew the answer to that, I would retire, right now.” The laughter came, as expected, and this time Aguirre bestowed a gracious smile on his audience.
“All I can do is guess. After twenty years of the mass-produced uniformity of sunny, fruity and disposable wines, the traditional, time-honoured methods have once more been recognised for delivering depth. Open a bulk-produced Chardonnay and a white Rioja and compare. At first taste, the Chardonnay comes out fighting. Consistent to the last drop, it tells you of the maker and his methods. A reliable if unexciting wine. The Rioja, with a more savoury, green-apple note to begin, develops an earthy, mouth-coating taste, revealing its mineral sources, and deferring finally to a buttery lemon finish. A journey from first taste to last, it tells you of the soil, the climate, the land. That is not simply a wine. That is an adventure.”
His rhetoric, his gestures, his passionate evocation of the sensory experience brought forth a round of applause. He spotted Inez and Paz exchanging a look of familiar admiration. Yes, they’d seen it all before. But like a fine Gran Reserva, every year he just got better.
The journalist, quite delighted with his coup, shook Aguirre’s hand more times than was necessary, before finally following his crew to the exit. Or perhaps he was just drunk. Paz had ensured their guests were well-lubricated, just as soon as the interview was over, and the atmosphere was celebratory.
Aguirre slipped into the back room, amongst the wine boxes and publicity material to make a call. It went to voicemail. He smiled. So much the better.
“Tomas, it’s Arturo. Arturo Aguirre. I hear the fire we put out is still smouldering. A collaborative effort is now required. For all our sakes, we must extinguish this once and for all. I know I can count on you. Keep me informed. Goodbye.”
He glared at the cases of his famous product, seeing nothing. This whole business was becoming an irritant. Just like an infection in the vines, it had to be treated at source, otherwise it would spread like a virus, damaging crops, vintages and reputations. Something like this had to be ripped out at the roots. It was time to call in some favours.
Chapter 9
The front door slammed and Beatrice jerked awake. The clock read 08.13. Ana must have left for work. Beatrice threw back the duvet and stared at the carpet. She’d guessed Ana wouldn’t accept this easily. The girl’s lack of respect for authority had come to the fore last night, making it harder to convince her that Beatrice had no choice but to back off. A reluctant truce was reached, after arguing back and forth till gone midnight. Beatrice’s hands were tied but her mind was not. She would stay in the background, advising Ana on techniques and lines of enquiry until the end of the week. Then the girl would be on her own.
To her credit, Ana didn’t sulk, instead giving Beatrice the story Tiago was pursuing; a vanishing junior accountant. Sounded rather dull, but Tiago’s disappearance aroused more suspicion. With everyone, it seemed, but the police. Beatrice shook herself. She would devote no more hours to fuming at that sly, two-faced, duplicitous Milandro. She stomped into the bathroom. Rotten little rat; I have calls to make. He wasted no time. Nasty, untrustworthy snake. To think she’d respected him, when all the while he was waiting to drop her in it. She turned the water to full blast as if to wash away her thoughts.
How frustrating journalism must be. To have almost as many facts and opinions as the police, but without the authority of the law to investigate.
Once dried, dressed and her blisters plastered, Beatrice sought the kitchen.
A note was stuck to the fridge: Help yourself to whatever you fancy. I recommend the rashers. Coffee machine on stove. Back at lunchtime unless any developments. Ana.
Whilst tucking into bacon, eggs and mushrooms, Beatrice made a mind-map of all she knew in pen, adding assumptions in pencil, placing Tiago Vínculo at the centre. She retrieved her tourist guide from her handbag, identifying Tiago’s apartment block and its proximity to El Papagaio. The accountancy firm with the absent accountant sat in the central bank and finance sector. All within spitting distance. She trawled the firm’s photographs, their address, and attempted to read some of the El Periódico archive logged by Tiago. But her poor grasp of even basic Spanish made this a fruitless exercise.
Yes, the Internet opened many doors, but there was no substitute for the real thing. Beatrice wanted to be out there, talking to the people, pressing the editor, checking Tiago’s communications. Impossible. Hamilton would explode in a cloud of indignation and serge suiting if he heard the merest hint of her involvement. And Matthew would most certainly take a dim view of her detour into detecting while she was supposed to be taking a complete break.
Matthew. He had no idea where she was and intended to call the hotel today. She washed up and went in search of her mobile, releasing her hair to do its worst. The sun cast huge rhomboids of light across Ana’s living room, so Beatrice settled into the sofa, tucked up her legs like a cat on a cushion and prepared to put a positive spin on her extended stay in Vitoria.
She was still thinking of the most suitable terminology when running footsteps approached the door. Beatrice got to her feet as a key rattled back and forth. Ana burst in, breathing heavily, but pale as porridge.
“Just heard – a body’s been found – at the bottom of a dam – near the Ullíbarri-Gamboa Reservoir – huge fuss at the paper – water for half the province comes from there – police won’t confirm identity – we have to go – come on – your boss can just swivel.”
She thrust an aggressive middle finger in the direction of the telephone.
Beatrice obeyed and put on her flip-flops; her sense of foreboding and concern growing. But as they hurried down the stairs, she couldn’t help practising that gesture and whispering the word ‘swivel’ with a secretive smile.
The morgue, situated in the same grounds as Santiago Apostol Hospital, had its own car park surrounded by trees, effectively screening it from those who would rather not be reminded of their own mortality. Ana parked the moped as far from the entrance of the low, sober-looking building as it was possible to go. Beatrice dismounted and saw why. A police car sat squarely in front of the main doors.
It would be foolhardy to cross paths with Milandro the day after he’d reported her to Hamilton. Ana obviously had the same thought and indicated the walkway along the side of the building. As they approached, Beatrice could see that the building did in fact have two storeys, but one was below ground. On this side, a deep trench ran alongside the wall. Large frosted-glass windows allowed natural light to penetrate but prevented any ghoulish curiosity. A handrail ensured no one could fall in and a set of metal steps descended to a fire escape door. Stainless steel ashtrays indicated the smokers’ corner.
Ana’s phone trilled an upbeat melody. She answered, leaning on the rail, muttering a few words in Spanish, but mostly listening. Autumn leaves and litter had blown into the trench and caught in spiders’ webs, giving the place an abandoned quality. Beatrice moved a little further along, concerned about being seen from the car park.
Ana ended her call. “That was Jaime, the editor at the paper. He’s been talking to the cyclists who found the body. Male, young, no ID, no personal belongings and the face was unrecognisable, they say. Could be anyone.”
Beatrice rested her hand on Ana’s arm. “So there’s every possibility it was some poor hiker who took a tumble.”
The girl shook her head. “I have a bad feeling about this. We’ll wait for the police to leave and then find out for ourselves who it is and how he died.”
“Will the coroner give out that kind of information?”
“No.” Ana’s attention was caught by movement in the car park. The police vehicle pulled away, followed by an unmarked car, with Milandro clearly visible in the driver’s seat. Fortunately, he faced front. Beatrice released her breath and looked at
Ana to continue.
“Now what?”
“Now this. Can I borrow your phone? I’m going to call Karel, the coroner’s assistant, who will tell us what we want to know.”
Beatrice handed her mobile over, wondering why Ana didn’t use her own.
“Is Carol a friend of yours?”
“More of a stalker who owes me a favour. Hence the need for your phone.” She scrolled through her own phone and punched the number into Beatrice’s keypad.
Beatrice stared at her. “Why does she owe you a favour?”
Ana frowned at her for a second before her face cleared. “Not Carol, Karel. He’s a six-foot four Dutch doctor. And he owes me because I didn’t apply for a restraining order.” She pressed the call button and her expression hardened.
“Karel? This is Ana Herrero. I want to talk to you. Outside, by the smoking area. Yes, now would be good. Tell them you need the bathroom.”
Two minutes later, the door crunched open and a tall man in a white coat emerged. He stooped to avoid banging his head on the door frame and Beatrice noticed the gesture was well practised. As well as his impressive height, Karel had the broad shoulders of a swimmer, thick fair hair and strong features. His expression was wary, searching Ana’s face before acknowledging Beatrice with a bow of his head.
“Hello, Ana. I was surprised to hear from you.”
“I’ll bet. But it’s not actually you I’m interested in. I need some information.”
Karel gave a sad smile in Beatrice’s direction. “Unrequited love, you see. If she’d only give me a chance ...”