by JJ Marsh
With that, something crunched into a wall followed by a foreign expletive. Beatrice and Jaime walked back along the corridor to find Ana wrestling with Beatrice’s suitcase, plus her own two bags.
Jaime shot Beatrice a wicked grin. “Here, let me take that. Otherwise you’ll damage the paintwork.”
Ana thrust the handle towards him. “Bugger the paintwork. Your lift is out of order. And so are you, Beatrice Stubbs. I swear to God that case is even heavier than before. What the hell have you got in there?”
“Inappropriate shoes, mostly, and a few souvenirs. The Guggenheim had the most wonderful pottery.”
“You’re travelling round Spain dragging a suitcase full of crockery?”
They followed Jaime into his flat, a large gloomy space with minimal furnishings and a surfeit of electronics. But it was clean and tidy and smelt of furniture polish.
As if he’d read her thoughts, Jaime said, “I’m afraid the place was a bit of a mess. So I’ve been cleaning since you called. You should come around more often. Now, are you hungry?”
Ana dropped her bags inside the doorway. “I could eat the leg of the Lamb of God and come back for its tail. Beatrice, how about yourself?”
The sun set, filling Jaime’s apartment with golden-pink light as they sat around the remains of roast chicken in sherry sauce. He listened to the whole story with careful attention. Like Ana, he seemed initially suspicious of the explanation for Beatrice’s puffy eyes and butterfly stitched nose, but accepted it after Beatrice repeated her tale twice. He offered his unconditional assistance, asked dozens of questions and smoked several cigarettes. The only time his composure wobbled was when he heard the truth about Tiago. He placed his hands over his eyes and seemed to wrestle for control. Eventually, he lifted his head.
“You should have told me. Tiago should have … oh shit, this is such a mess. Ana, this isn’t some scoop about dodgy politicians or footballers having underage sex. If what you say is true, Tiago was killed for chasing this story. And you two carry on as if …” He lit another cigarette, shaking his head.
“Jaime, listen …”
“No, Ana, just shut the fuck up for a second. Sorry, Beatrice. But you must understand how dangerous this situation is. If Tiago was murdered, whoever did it wants the story as dead as he is. We have to be extremely careful. Neither of you should be seen in Vitoria. If there’s any further investigation to be done, we’ll find another way. The paper can’t afford to make an enemy of Arturo de Aguirre, but nor can we afford to lose an exposé like this.”
Lit up by the rose-coloured sky, Ana’s eyes blazed in the autumn sun. “If it is fraud, it is on an industrial scale, and will have repercussions all the way along the chain. This will go national and probably international. We’d better be prepared to take some heat.”
Jaime stretched his arms above his head, which, Beatrice noted, tightened the muscles across his chest. His shirt, made of some heavy cream material, strained at the press studs.
“I’m ready for that. The paper can handle it.” He relaxed his stretch and pointed at them with his cigarette. “But you two, as individuals, are far too vulnerable. Now listen to me. Both of you. I want you to promise that neither of you will do anything, say anything, or call anyone without telling me first. We need to work as a team and that means no individual risks. OK?”
They promised.
He gave them a quarter-smile. “Vale. Now, I’d like to take a coffee. There’s a nice café at the end of my street, if you ladies would like to join me.”
Beatrice still found this habit very odd. Heading out into the streets at the time she’d normally be donning her pyjamas.
“If you don’t mind, I think I might stay here and lie down a while. Today has been rather hard work and a beast of a headache has begun.”
Jaime’s deep blue eyes were full of concern. “Of course. You look really pale. Ana can take the guest room, but I’ve put you in my bed. I’ll sleep in the study. Don’t argue, there’s a sofa where I often fall asleep if I’m working late. The bathroom is through the door on the left.”
“You do look peaky, Beatrice. Will I get you some more painkillers while we’re out?”
“No need, thanks. I have some spares in my bag. I’ll see if I can sleep it off before taking any more. Jaime, you’re extremely kind and I’m very grateful.”
“Don’t mention it. I hope you sleep well, Beatrice, and feel lots better tomorrow.” He bent forward and kissed her forehead.
She sat on Jaime’s bed, listening to the sounds of them leaving the building. Beautiful eyes, great cook, generous personality and the softest lips. Why on earth was he living alone?
Chapter 19
Rain lashed the panes as if someone were repeatedly hurling a bucketful at the window. Adrian stood with his hands on his hips, frowning at Boot Street. The view outside was a colourful blur, as umbrellas bobbed along the pavement like petals floating downstream. A piquant waft of jamon iberica from the meat platter on the table caused him to inhale and close his eyes. The doorbell rang. Even though he’d been waiting impatiently for over an hour, it startled him. He buzzed his visitor into the building and unlocked the flat door.
Wet patches darkened the shoulders of Matthew’s mud-green jacket, his hair dripped down his face and his shoes oozed water onto the hall carpet. He looked every inch like an eccentric English university professor and smelt like a spaniel fresh from the river. Adrian shook his head as he reached for Matthew’s suitcase.
“No umbrella?”
“Left the wretched thing on the train. I’ll take my shoes off out here.”
As Adrian returned with two bath towels, Matthew wiped the water from his face with reddened hands. Affection overpowered Adrian’s annoyance and concern for soft furnishings.
“You need to get out of those wet things. Immediately.”
Matthew nodded. “Yes. I don’t want to catch a cold.”
“Not only that, but the whiff would overpower any kind of accurate tasting.”
The miserable expression lifted. “Oh, you managed to get some then?”
“Did you doubt I would? Now, go and change and I’ll make you a hot toddy.”
Some time back, a Color Me Beautiful consultant had identified Adrian as winter. His colouring, sharp and distinctive, apparently allowed him to wear bolder hues; black and white, berry and jewel. The system intrigued him, so he read up on it and reorganised his wardrobe accordingly. Customers who came through the door of the Hoxton Wine Emporium were mentally assigned a season in under ten seconds. Adrian took no formal training in the science of complementary tones, merely employing natural good taste and excellent instincts. He was rarely wrong.
Matthew, despite having all the fashion sense of a goat, had also discovered his true palette. Moss, rust, olive and taupe, the colours of a kitchen garden, complemented his chocolate eyes and warm skin as he sat opposite, sipping from a Villeroy & Boch mug. The lemon juice, honey and Aberfeldy did the trick and Matthew glowed with enthusiasm while Adrian explained how his Spanish ex-boyfriend had arranged for a case of Castelo de Aguirre white Viura to be delivered direct from Rioja country.
“He’s the perfect one to call, because his current squeeze is a trucker who works the continental routes. Paolo’s tastes generally run to rough trade, you see. I must have been an exception. Anyway, the trucker picked up a case en route and it got here in less time than it took you to travel up from Devon.”
“Well done. And please express my gratitude to Paolo and his timely trucker. So if the goods are here, perhaps we should perform the experiment?”
“Why not? And if our results are conclusive, we can call Beatrice back this afternoon. Are you feeling better?”
Matthew stood. “Thoroughly restored, thank you. Just curious and a little peckish.”
“I can meet both those basic needs. We have a selection of Spanish meats, a quality Manchego, roasted peppers, chilli almonds and a baguette fresh from the oven. I went for the te
rroir concept. But rather than sully our buds beforehand, shall we taste first?”
Matthew rubbed his hands together. “Superlative plan. I assume the wine is chilled?”
Adrian gave him an arch look before leading the way to the kitchen.
On the central island lay a white linen napkin, six Riedel wine glasses, two water glasses, two ballpoint pens and two brand-new notepads purchased that morning at Paperchase. Adrian’s preparations, as ever, were thoroughly thought through.
Matthew seated himself on a breakfast stool and adopted a certain critical air. For his part, Adrian was unconcerned. In certain fields, such as wine and musical theatre, Adrian remained the uncontested expert. Even more so since opening his own emporium. Matthew took off his glasses to read the label on each bottle, observed the extraction of all three corks and studied the elderflower-coloured liquid as it rose to a third of the way up the glass.
The pair began a practised routine. Each lifting their first glass to the light, they studied the colour. Adrian replaced his on the napkin and wrote a brief description. Pale, more hay than straw, vaguest hint of green? Matthew raised his to the window, tilting it at various angles a moment longer before turning to his notebook. By which time Adrian was assessing the bouquet. Holding the stem so as not to affect the temperature, he swirled the wine around the bowl, using minute revolutions of the wrist. He passed the glass under his nose, on the inhale. Some lemon, green beans, and blossom. Cut grass? He pressed his nose deeper into the bowl. Camomile, apricot and asparagus.
He set down the wine and wrote detailed impressions on nose. Lastly, the attack. He rolled the liquid around his mouth, giving each taste bud its chance. Elegance, some honey, a whisper of apple. Pleasant acidity, light and dry. The taste developed depth, revealing more of the fruit as green apple, balanced by a floral sweetness. After swallowing, the mouthfeel lengthened into a spice. Baked apple?
He returned his attention to Matthew, who finished scrawling in tiny handwriting and looked up with a smile. “We’ll compare later, of course, but that was a wholly pleasurable experience.”
Adrian bowed his head in acknowledgement. “That was the original. The Aguirre white Rioja sold in Spain. Now for the exports. I have two samples; one from my own supplier, Imperial Wines and another sourced from Grapemeister.”
He poured them both some water, they drank and began again. The routine followed the pattern exactly until Matthew took his first sip. Adrian, still trying to define the exact nose, had fallen behind and when Matthew placed his glass back on the napkin as if he’d been poisoned, Adrian’s first reaction was offence.
“Oh, please, Matthew. I accept you might not like it quite as much, but this is a product from my own shop. I chose to stock this so it can’t possibly be as rank as that expression of yours makes out.”
Matthew wasn’t listening, instead pulling the napkin from around the neck of the bottle and examining the label once more.
Adrian took a sip, rolled the liquid around for three seconds and swallowed quickly so he could speak.
“That could be a supermarket blend-in-a-box! There must have been a mistake.”
“A little harsh, but it is far from the same wine.”
“Matthew, I take my choice of stock seriously. There is no way I would have selected this. I never buy on mere strength of name. I taste. I go there and taste.”
Matthew steepled his hands under his chin. “Right. One more to go. And if the gap between the two remains as startling, we may need a whistle to blow.”
Adrian returned from his office with a print-out and stood in front of Matthew, raising his eyebrows in enquiry. Matthew glanced at the paper, gave the thumbs-up and returned his attention to the telephone, through which he reassured Beatrice.
“Absolutely. I think you could say we learnt our lesson last time, Old Thing. Yes, I know and we’re only coming over to act as consultant oenologists. Just for the weekend, that’s all. I have to get back to Exeter and Adrian’s colleague has only agreed to cover till Monday. But we are both convinced our expertise will be beneficial ...”
Adrian held the print-out in front of Matthew’s face, pointing out the flight times before indicating his watch.
“Ah. Now, it seems we really have to step on it if we’re to make these flights. Sorry? No, no, Adrian has arranged a hotel, but perhaps you’d like to make a dinner reservation? We’ll be with you by teatime. I’d lean to seafood this evening, but if you have ...”
Adrian sighed and flapped the papers.
“Must dash. See you this evening. Jolly well looking forward to it. Bye for now.”
The doorbell rang.
Adrian picked up his hastily packed suitcase. Fortunately, his skill at packing for a mini-break was honed through practice. “That’ll be the taxi. An extravagance, I know, but it’s still raining. Come on, Matthew, Beatrice needs us.”
Chapter 20
Beatrice needed to calm down. She’d taken her mood stabilisers every day, but because of the irregular routine of the past week, her timing was all over the place. And now, she was like a hyperactive child. Even knowing that this phase would inevitably be followed by a dip, she couldn’t summon up any sobering anxiety. The most frustrating thing when she felt sociable, extrovert and animated was spending the majority of the day alone.
By the time Beatrice woke, Jaime had already left for work. Ana was pacing the kitchen, speaking Spanish on her phone. After helping herself to coffee, Beatrice’s first priority was to check the damage to her face. Her left eye was swollen and the colour of an overripe damson. The right looked far from normal but no worse than if she had a stye in it. The bridge of her nose had bled in the night, leaving a dark dried crust around the stitches. She looked bloody awful, but apart from a constantly throbbing face and a very stiff knee, she felt fantastic.
Ana made a series of phone calls to arrange meetings for the following day and then dressed herself for Tiago’s funeral. Black suited her; the sadness in her eyes less so. Jaime returned to pick her up at ten, as the funeral was taking place in Tiago’s home village, near Pamplona. In a narrow black suit with shoestring tie and messy hair, Jaime looked like an extra from A Fistful of Dollars.
He flashed those astounding teeth and took her hand. “Be careful, Beatrice. I think it would be better if you stayed here till we return. Remember, no risks.”
She saw them off with a sigh. Probably the only occasion in her life on which she actually wanted to go to the funeral of a complete stranger. Matthew and Adrian were due to arrive in Bilbao at three o’clock, but then she had to wait for the bus to deliver them to Vitoria.
Five hours and nothing to do. Jaime’s apartment was the average single male’s abode, purely functional and unless you liked video games, a little depressing. Like a student’s flat. For the editor of a newspaper, he didn’t seem to have much in the way of books. She mooched about, idly examining the few framed cuttings which she couldn’t read, opening kitchen cupboards, looking out over the city from the second floor balcony and checking out the wardrobe. Denim, leather, embroidered shirts, cowboy boots; she wondered if he might be into line-dancing. Telling herself she was looking for something to pass the time, she decided to take a peek at Jaime’s study. She found it locked, to her surprise and immediate guilt. Why would he lock it, unless he didn’t trust ... oh.
Time to go out. She’d stay on the main streets, potter about in the city, keeping her head down and later find somewhere to have lunch. That could hardly be seen as breaking her promise to take no risks. Her mood lifted still further as she collected her handbag, checked she had the key and headed out into the streets.
But she’d forgotten about her face. Everywhere she went people stared, or winced, or gave sympathetic smiles; she certainly was drawing attention to herself. After a while, she began to avoid eye contact until she realised that keeping her focus on the ground would be counter-productive to remaining alert and thus safe. Her optimism for the day soured and the low sun seemed
unnecessarily bright, so she gave up. The only useful thing she managed was to buy a pair of trainers and sports socks to protect her feet. Just as she turned back towards the apartment, an idea occurred. Sunglasses. They worked wonders, reducing the staring and softening the glare. Why did it take her so long to think of these things? Half an hour later, she’d purchased something suitably Jackie O which didn’t hurt her nose. By which time her headache had returned.
The walk back was not as easy as she had imagined. She’d over-estimated her familiarity with the layout of Vitoria and found herself going in circles around every country in South America. Calle Argentina, Calle Chile, Calle Ecuador, and when she eventually found Calle Bolivia, it was not the place she had left that morning. She felt like Patrick McGoohan. Disorientation, heat and her throbbing nose combined to turn stress into a growing panic. She followed the street again and noticed that Calle Bolivia was not a dead-end, as it first appeared. A footpath led through to another street, also called Calle Bolivia. Beatrice still wasn’t exactly sure where she was, but her instinct told her to turn right. As the road curved around, she recognised the building ahead. She’d been gazing at it that very morning, from Jaime’s balcony. She lifted her eyes towards the block across the road, seeking Jaime’s apartment. She wasn’t the only one.
Two men stood outside the apartment block, also looking up at the second floor. Beatrice stopped. She couldn’t see them clearly, but the matching hefty physiques, shades and dark suits seemed familiar. She slipped behind a tree to observe the situation. Everything fell away; the heat, the pain in her face, her dry mouth, the slick moisture of her hands on the carrier bag, as her training and experience kicked in. She focused on each detail. One of the men walked up to the door and rang one of the buzzers. He waited, listening, while his colleague kept his head tilted back, watching the apartment.
If these were the muscle-bound Rottweilers who had so frightened Ana, where were their handlers? Possibly watching her watching them? Beatrice scanned the street, her pulse rapid and her breathing short. A dark blue Mercedes, Ana had said. Most of the cars were white, with the odd silver or red vehicle. Further along, some darker colours stood out, but they were too far away to be distinguishable. The doorbell ringer returned to the street and a grunty conversation ensued. They turned and swaggered in the opposite direction to Beatrice, glancing backwards and upwards with ostentatious suspicion. She followed, with extreme caution, using trees, vans and advertising hoardings as cover, until she saw them stop beside one of the darker sedans; a Mercedes.