The Beatrice Stubbs Series Boxset One

by JJ Marsh

  Luz offered her hand which Vasconcellos took but pulled her closer to brush both cheeks with his lips.

  “Miss Aguirre, it is a pleasure. I’ve heard so much about you.” His smile was generous. Hers was half-hearted.

  “Oh but you haven’t heard the best. Luz is a great aficionado of fine architecture. I’m sure she would appreciate your views on that Calatrava project we discussed earlier. Excuse me one moment.”

  He wove a path to the dining room, resisting a look back until he reached the open doors. With some satisfaction, he noted Vasconcellos bend his head to listen to Luz, who was explaining something with great earnestness. Aguirre sighed. If only she could smile a little more and talk a little less.

  His eyes swept over the room, checking all was as it should be when his attention was caught by Marisol, standing motionless on the staircase. In a second, he knew something was wrong. She stared across the room, her jaw set and lips pinched. Aguirre followed her sightline, almost sure the object of such livid focus would be his beautiful Klaudyna, and began rehearsing denials. He frowned when he realised her furious glare was directed at her youngest daughter. Oblivious, Luz continued to lecture poor Vasconcellos.

  Aguirre slid through the crowds, exuding purpose so as not to be derailed by favour-seekers, until he reached Marisol.

  “What is it?”

  She fixed her stare on him and he noticed her fists were clenched.

  “Marisol?”

  “Come with me. We need to talk.”

  Chapter 22

  The bus arrived five minutes early. Beatrice was already waiting. She found a free spot on a bench between a chap in a business suit and two teenage girls and settled down to wait, anticipating Adrian’s reaction to her bruised face, Matthew’s thoughts on today’s close shave and both their impressions of Ana and Jaime.

  When Beatrice called her from the museum, Ana had returned to the apartment with Jaime and reported the coast clear. Of the ‘welcoming committee’, there was no sign. They agreed on meeting at the hotel for dinner and strategic planning.

  She shifted around and crossed her legs. A twinge in her knee made her grimace. She started to give it a gentle rub when her phone rang. She didn’t recognise the number but answered anyway.

  “Hello?”

  A woman’s voice. “Hello, is that Beatrice Stubbs?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “It’s Luz Aguirre. From the vineyard. I just wanted to ask how you are after yesterday’s fall.”

  “Oh, how kind of you to call. I should have called you to say thanks, but there’s rather a lot going on, you see. I’m fine. Surprisingly well, in fact. Your first aid was extremely efficient.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that. My parents would like to send you some flowers, by way of an apology. I know you’re staying in Calle Cuchillería. Could you tell me which apartment?”

  Uneasy about sharing Ana’s address, Beatrice stalled. “There’s really no need to apologise. If I received flowers every time I tripped over, I could start up a business.”

  “They insist. Personally, I think those steps are lethal. So I think they’re lucky to get away with nothing more than a flower basket.”

  “I suspect the insistence comes from you rather than them, but a flower basket is always welcome. The thing is, I’m moving to the Hotel Valencia, which is in the centre. Do you know it?”

  “Yes, I do. My sister had her wedding reception there. It’s very grand.”

  “Is it? Oh, good. I like a bit of luxury.”

  Luz laughed. “I hope you have a lovely stay and the flowers lift your spirits. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Stubbs. Get well soon and enjoy the rest of your holiday.”

  “Thank you Luz, and good luck with your studies.”

  It could be genuine, of course. A gesture from a nice, well-mannered young woman with a conscience. Or it could be an Aguirre-induced way of finding her. Happily, she hadn’t needed to lie, but nor had she given too much away.

  After an alarming start, the day had exceeded expectations. A hushed hour in front of Miró, Gargallo, del Rivero, Brossa and Nagel, the delicious lunch of fresh pintxos with a glass of rosé and pleasant company and a feeling of having averted a trough had brought Beatrice to almost a kind of equilibrium. Now a friendly gesture from the Aguirre family and her two favourite men in the world were imminent. All well with the world.

  Someone cleared his throat, pointedly. Beatrice realised she was bouncing up and down on her buttocks, so forcing the other occupants of the bench to bounce with her. She desisted and held up her hands.

  “Sorry.”

  The suit, the teenagers and an older woman with a laundry bag smiled at her evident impatience. Certain behaviour was universally understood and forgiven.

  Seconds later, the bus arrived. Choosing to stick with the sunglasses to minimise the shock factor, Beatrice hurried to meet them.

  Adrian spotted her first, but was diplomatic enough to point her out to Matthew while he claimed their bags.

  “Beatrice!” He embraced her cautiously. “I’ve been rather worried about you. Are things really all right? Are you?”

  “I am now. It’s actually wonderful to see you, Matthew. Oh dear, I really am getting to be a sentimental old bat. It’s not even a fortnight since I left.”

  “An eventful fortnight, by all accounts,” Matthew said, his smile not quite eradicating the frown of concern.

  “Hello, Beatrice! Hardy Boys reporting for duty!”

  Beatrice beamed. Adrian, crisp as a stick of celery, wore a green linen shirt, off-white trousers and carried something resembling a cricketer’s holdall. He held out his arms as if for a hug but grabbed her shoulders.

  With maximum drama, he dropped his voice to a funereal pitch. “I think we’d best get it over with. Let us see your face.”

  Beatrice sighed, and with a shrug, removed her sunglasses.

  Adrian dropped his bag and clapped both hands over his mouth. Matthew’s eyes roved over her, finally meeting her patient gaze. They were attracting quite some attention in the bus station, everyone drawn to such a spectacle.

  “Tell me again, and I promise to believe you. This was an accident.”

  “It looks horrific, I know. But the culprit was a useless pair of shoes, as prosaic as that. Matthew, and as a matter of fact, you too Adrian, should both be aware of my clumsy streak. We do have things to worry about, but I assure you, this isn’t one of them. Now come on, let’s get to the hotel. There are some people I want you to meet.”

  Despite the promised grandeur, the superb location, fine food and perfectly matched wine, the meeting was not going well. Matthew had taken against Jaime. Beatrice wasn’t sure precisely why. Perhaps Jaime’s casual dress: jeans, an open-necked shirt and a bandana round his neck instead of a tie, had offended him. It might have been Jaime’s familiar way of flirt-teasing, or maybe he’d caught one of Beatrice’s admiring looks at the editor. One thing was for sure, Matthew was unimpressed.

  “I have to say I disagree, Jaime. Hard evidence is exactly what Adrian and I have flown here to provide. We have bottled proof that the export wine is something other than what it says on the label. And as two people investigating this racket have already met with a sticky end, I think it wisest to take what we have to the police. Now.”

  Matthew’s measured tones sounded calm and reasonable. One would have to know him extremely well to detect the undercurrent of hostility in his voice.

  Beatrice chipped in. “The thing is, Matthew, we’ve already tried to get the police to take this seriously. We know for a fact they suppressed the coroner’s findings about Tiago. His death was recorded as an accident and thus no investigation will be forthcoming. Not only that, but the detective we spoke to immediately contacted London to call me off.”

  Matthew fixed her with a frown. “How do you know that?”

  “Hamilton rang me and bawled me out. Told me to stop interfering.” She returned her attention to the pork fillet on
her plate, avoiding Matthew’s incisive stare.

  Ana took over. “In a way, Matthew, you’re right. We have proof that someone, somewhere, is ripping off the British public. But we don’t know which link in the chain is responsible. Or whether, which I think is more likely, the whole process is corrupt. We need to find out a little more about where this is happening and then we can point the finger in the right direction.”

  “Sounds fair enough to me,” said Adrian, topping up Jaime’s glass. “And I quite fancy a nose round the vineyard. Why don’t we see what we can find out tomorrow and then have a rethink?”

  Jaime smiled at him. “Thank you. Yes, I agree. With information from the DOC, the wine expert’s insights and the background of the vineyard, we should have a clearer picture by tomorrow evening.”

  Matthew shook his head. “Jaime, Ana, forgive my being blunt, but I am concerned you are chasing a story. Whereas I see this as a criminal investigation, which should be carried out by the professionals. The local professionals.” He glanced at Beatrice. “Dabbling in a case which involves two dead men seems at best foolhardy.”

  Ana put down her fork and gazed at Matthew. “One of those dead men was my best friend. The police won’t investigate why someone hacked off his nose, so I will. I want to take them enough evidence so they are forced to act. And at the moment, I haven’t got it. Couldn’t we work as a team, as Adrian says, for one more day?”

  Everyone paused; forks hovered, glasses stopped midway to lips and all eyes rested on Matthew.

  He sighed. “No one should do anything alone. We must stay in pairs, or all together.”

  Ana gave him a brilliant smile and the meal resumed.

  Jaime nodded. “I agree with Matthew. No need to worry about me. I’m going to be at the office, surrounded by people. Ana and Beatrice should go to San Sebastian together. You can take my car. And Adrian and Matthew could join an official tour of Castelo de Aguirre.”

  Ana’s eyes widened. “Your car? Seriously?”

  “I know. Trusting you with my pride and joy, I must be out of my mind.” Jaime took a sip of wine. “But if I can’t be there myself, it’s the least I can do. Just be careful, OK?”

  Ana grinned. “Trust me. I’m an excellent driver. Adrian, can I get a top-up there? I’ve a throat on me tonight.”

  Matthew caught Beatrice’s eyes. He smiled but she knew there was trouble brewing. And what was worse, she knew she deserved it.

  Chapter 23

  The police arrived as Tunçay was spooning yoghurt onto a plate of corn fritters for the party on table six. Three burst through the serving doors, two of whom carried guns. Another two appeared from the back door, also armed. The kitchen, normally filled with shouts and clatter, had never heard noise like it. All the gunmen were shouting, making it impossible to hear any clear instructions. Tunçay put down the yoghurt and raised his hands in the air, just in case.

  The only man without a gun marched up to the chef, Mehmet.

  “Immigration Office. I want to see your papers. Now.” In chef’s whites, there was nowhere to keep documents, so Mehmet went to the cloakroom to fetch his coat. The whole time, two gunmen kept their weapons trained on him. His documents, of course, were legal and valid, which seemed to disappoint the officer. He repeated the process with everyone, glaring at each man as if he’d caught them stowing away in the back of a truck, rather than trying to serve starters for a party of nine.

  Tunçay put it down to paranoia at first, but as the seconds ticked by, he knew the officer was taking twice as long to scrutinise his own work permit and passport as he had the others. He lifted his head to stare at Tunçay. Everyone watched and all four guns pointed his way.

  “How do you pronounce this?” he barked, stabbing his finger at Tunçay’s name.

  “Toon-Jai Kilij.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Turkey. Sinop, on the Black Sea coast.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “To travel. To learn Spanish and ... everything.”

  “When are you going home?”

  “About two in the morning, I expect. We have to clean the restaurant after ...”

  “I mean when are you going back to Turkey?”

  “I ... I don’t know yet. I have plans to travel and ...”

  The man threw the papers onto the stainless steel counter in Tunçay’s direction and walked back through the swing doors. Holstering their weapons, the police officers followed, casting aggressive looks at anyone who raised their eyes. Tunçay collected his documents with shaking hands and looked up at Mehmet. Normally, Mehmet took the title of the scariest person in Tunçay’s life, but today he’d been reduced to the status of victim by a different kind of bully.

  “What was that all about?”

  Mehmet scooped the corn fritters back into the deep fryer. “I guess the old bastard didn’t get laid last night and needed to release some testosterone. Put some more yoghurt on that plate then get these to table six. They’ve been waiting almost twenty minutes.”

  The last comment contained a reproach, as if Tunçay had neglected his duties in favour of being hassled by Immigration.

  He dressed the starter and once the golden patties were reheated, balanced the plates and bounced his way back into the restaurant, already rehearsing his apology in Spanish. The police had gone, but Deniz the barman signalled his concern with a pointed look at the staff table. Two men sat with Bulent, both wearing dark suits. This was not unusual, as Bulent had various business activities in addition to the restaurant. But the shifty glance he gave Tunçay was certainly out of the ordinary.

  Dumping the plates with a distracted ‘Sorry’, Tunçay leant over the bar to Deniz.

  “Who are they?”

  “No idea. Don’t think Bulent knows them either, but I’d say his balls are in his throat. The ugly one with the wrinkles sat down, took Bulent’s cigarette out of his mouth and stubbed it out on the tablecloth. So I’m pretty sure they’re not from the church.”

  “Which is the ugly one with the wrinkles? They both look the same to me.”

  A bell rang from the kitchen and Tunçay hurried away.

  At nine-fifteen, Tunçay took a break. Desserts had been served, so there would be a lull until coffee. He held up his Marlboros and indicated the door, just to let Mehmet know, and pushed out into the night air. The alleyway stank of urine and bins and greasy fumes pumped out by extractor fans. Still, it was quiet. He lit a cigarette and inhaled, holding his breath for just a second, before blowing a thin jet of smoke towards the sky. Tonight, he wouldn’t need to perform the elaborate post-cigarette ritual of teeth-cleaning and breath-freshening. Luz wouldn’t be back until Sunday. It was bad enough in a normal week, not knowing when he’d see her again, but a guaranteed absence of four days made him miserable.

  She was missing him too, if the several text messages per day were any indication. And he certainly liked the idea of her new underwear. Sunday. A day off, no work on Monday, and his sexy Spanish chica all wrapped up in black lace and ribbons. Time just didn’t move fast enough.

  The door opened behind him. Tunçay didn’t bother to turn around, knowing Deniz would be hoping to scrounge yet another smoke.

  “Ah, there you are.”

  Tunçay had never seen Bulent in the kitchen, leave alone outside the back door. He dropped his cigarette and straightened up.

  “Sorry, just taking a quick break.”

  “It’s fine. It’s all calm in there. No need to rush back. Look, have one of these.” He offered his silver case, which Tunçay had often mocked behind his back as affected.

  “OK, thanks.”

  “Turkish tobacco. I never smoke anything else.” Bulent flicked open a Zippo and the whiff of lighter fuel made Tunçay feel momentarily nostalgic.

  They smoked in silence, Tunçay struggling to think of something cool and Mehmet-like to say. Bulent sighed and ran a hand over his thick black hair.

  “I’m sorry about this, Tunçay, but
I have to let you go. The police were here tonight looking for illegal immigrants.”

  “What? I’m legal. You know that.”

  “Yes, I know that. The problem is you have made some enemies somewhere. I don’t know who, but these are powerful people. Powerful enough to get the police to search my premises every single night until you leave my employ and return to Turkey.”

  Tunçay couldn’t see Bulent’s expression, but his tone was serious and regretful. This was not a joke.

  “Bulent, you have the authority to fire me. It’s your restaurant. But to make me go back to Turkey? That’s insane.”

  “On the contrary, young man. That would be the wisest course of action I can think of. You’re right to say my authority extends no further than this restaurant. But my concern for you goes far beyond that. I can’t make you leave this country. If I could, I would. Because if you go of your own accord or if you go under my persuasion, at least you’ll go alive.”

  The Bond baddie routine was too much. Tunçay burst into snorts of laughter.

  “I’ll get my stuff. You know, you could have planted a can of chick peas in my jacket or something. Most bosses would have the balls to tell me I’m not good enough instead of inventing all this bullshit. What about my wages?”

  Bulent caught him by the shoulder. “If you ever had any respect for me, please take this seriously. You’re a good man, and a good waiter, in fact. I’m sorry to lose you. Mehmet will be mad as hell. You’re the best we have, according to him. Here. This is five hundred euros, which should cover your wages this week and buy you a last-minute flight to Turkey. Go, Tunçay. And I wish you happiness, health and peace.”

  He walked away, down the alley to the main street and around the corner.

  Five hundred euros. He stared at the pool of light where Bulent had disappeared. A compliment from Mehmet. Something he’d always craved but now it came too late. Two silhouettes crossed the light and stopped, turning to look at him. A tiny glow indicated a cigarette. Powerful enemies.

  Confusion gave way to temper which caved in to fear. Tunçay stormed into the kitchen, grabbed his jacket and walked out through the restaurant, aware of Mehmet’s silent gaze.