The Beatrice Stubbs Series Boxset One

by JJ Marsh

Without waiting for an answer, she picked up the glass and sniffed. “Good choice. In fact, visiting the Rueda region is a great idea. They’re overshadowed by the Rioja country, especially in recent years, which seems unfair as one of the finest wines ...”

  “Yes, I wanted to ask you about that. You see, Isabella, the truth is, I’m more of an expert on food than wine. Which is why I chose to start my research with you. But should we order first, do you think? I’ve not eaten since breakfast.”

  Isabella obviously heard the urgency in Beatrice’s tone and hailed the waiter. She rattled off instructions, underlined by emphatic hand gestures, and the waiter obediently wrote it all down. Then, finally, he brought the bread.

  Beatrice grabbed a small roll and began buttering. Isabella studied her.

  “Not too much bread. We have a feast ahead of us so you must not ... what was it ... queer your palate.” She laughed and picked up the wine list. “This is fun for me, you know. To introduce someone to our food, our wine, our culture. You said you had a question.”

  Beatrice swallowed but before she could speak, Isabella flowed on.

  “About Rueda being overshadowed, wasn’t it? Mmm, that wasn’t always the case. Their whites, verdejo and sauvignon blanc, have always outsold those of Rioja and built a well-deserved reputation for excellent wines. White Rioja used to be made the same way as red, in small barrels, aged for years. But then came stainless steel tanks, allowing vinification at low temperatures. Very successful move. Clean, fresh and the fruit to the fore. But the New World Chardonnays did it better. So white Rioja, once again, became the bridesmaid.”

  The roll had gone and Beatrice eyed the basket. At the risk of getting told off, she sneaked a slice of dark brown seeded stuff and asked another question to distract her pink-haired companion. “So what changed? How come it’s the trendy wine of the moment?”

  “Yes, that’s what we all want to know. The truth is actually quite simple. It’s a combination of a new style, smart marketing and one influential vineyard. That bread is very heavy so I suggest you only have one piece. So first, the new style. Rather than ageing it in barrels, the wine was only fermented in oak. That’s what gives the stamp of old school quality to a modern wine. This showed the grape, mostly Viura, at its best. Mixed with Malvasia, the new white Rioja has a depth and richness, orange along with lemon, giving it a subtle edge over the competition. Ah ha! Mejillones tigres!”

  An hour and a half later, Beatrice could take no more. Her appetite satiated, her notebook was as full as her stomach. She wrote the wine information in the front and details of the meal in the back, so she could gloat to Matthew later. She was also a little tipsy, in a pleasantly soft, at-ease-with-the-world sort of way. Isabella was still talking. In fact, she hadn’t stopped.

  “... lost his grape grower’s card as a result. So no, it would be impossible to sell your wine as anything but what it is. As I said, the Control Board performs strict tests, both sensory and in the lab. If the wine is sub-standard, it cannot be called Rioja.”

  Beatrice saw Ana slip through the front door and take up position on a bar stool. She took a slow scan of the interior but did not acknowledge Beatrice.

  “So if the wine is confirmed as meriting the Rioja label, what happens next?”

  “That’s up to the vineyard. They choose a winemaker and distributor and decide how much they want to sell and where. Do you want dessert?”

  “Yes, but possibly sometime next week. Thank you for choosing such an amazing selection. I can honestly say that was one of the finest eating experiences I’ve ever had.”

  Isabella flashed her teeth once again. “Just a normal everyday snack for us, you know.”

  “So if a wine went out into the world labelled as Rioja, but actually contained something else, that could only happen at the bottling stage?”

  Isabella’s smile faded to be replaced by a look of puzzlement. “It’s highly unlikely. I mean, the wine that leaves the vineyard has been quality tested and bears the guaranteed official label. Each bottle carries a stamp and a number. Impossible to fake.”

  Beatrice nodded and made a note. Nothing was impossible to fake, but Isabella Lopez had certainly narrowed the scope. At only one point in the chain could another wine find its way into a Rioja bottle. After paying the surprisingly reasonable bill, Beatrice stood and offered her hand.

  “Isabella, you have been more help than I can say. Thank you so much.”

  Isabella brushed her hand away, took her by the shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks. “It was a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for lunch. Please don’t forget to send me a copy of the article. I would love to read it. Have a wonderful stay!”

  “I won’t forget.” This lying lark got easier the more you did it. Not even a blush this time. Isabella turned and waved as she left, with one last burst of that incredible smile.

  Ana came over and slid into the recently vacated seat. “You’ve lipstick on your cheek.”

  Beatrice dabbed at her face with a napkin. “How was your meeting?”

  Ana shrugged. “Not sure. False. He was so cagey and asked more questions than he answered. I’ve a feeling he’d been primed. How was yours?”

  “Excellent. I had seafood, the most astonishing ham, black pudding, little fishy kebabs and green beans with garlic, those Gernika peppers and three different kinds of wine to match.”

  Ana started to laugh. “So while you were sampling the local goodies and getting drunk, did you make any progress at all?”

  Beatrice shoved her notebook at Ana. “All in there. I am a consummate professional.”

  Ana pushed it back. “And a lush. Come on, you can tell me all about it in the car. It’ll keep you awake. Do you need the bathroom before we go?”

  “You treat me like a wayward child. Actually, I think I do. Back in a minute.”

  Chapter 28

  On the outskirts of Miranda de Ebro, the Range Rover turned into a newly developed housing estate, passed a group of gardeners planting shrubs along the roadside and rumbled into the underground car park. A navy Maserati was the only other vehicle in the extensive space.

  Marisol checked her make-up and switched her phone to silent. She took the lift to the penthouse floor, as instructed. The door to the show apartment stood wide open and she heard classical music – Ravel’s Bolero – playing within. Floor-to-ceiling windows filled the space with light. She locked the door behind her, turned and saw what lay on the dining table. A black cat mask, complete with ears and whiskers.

  A note read: Put this on. Take everything else off. Except your heels.

  She sighed. Masks. Of course. They’d done striptease, handcuffs, feathers and ice cubes; next on the list had to be masks. Why was the sexual experimentation phase always so predictable? Next, it would be role play or body paint.

  She did as she was told, taking the time to fold her clothes carefully on the chair. She glanced out the window. Even if there had been anyone around, no one could see this far up. She walked to the bedroom, her skin responding with goosebumps to the cool breeze.

  The room was empty. She stepped further in, to check the en-suite. Two hands caught her hips and pulled her backwards. She gasped as his lips met her neck and she felt the hairs on his chest tickle her back. The momentary adrenalin of fear transformed into an erotic charge of need, causing her breath to grow ragged. His hands moved up, cupping her breasts and pinching her nipples as she arched back against him. He kicked the door closed and turned her to face the full-length mirror.

  A second electric charge shot through her. Most of his body was hidden by hers, but he towered head and shoulders above her, even with her heels. Dirty blond hair spiked over the devil mask disguising his eyes, but his mouth was visible, lips parted as he breathed into her ear. His hands moved with the grace and confidence of a master conductor, coaxing an orchestra of moans, sighs and whispers.

  “Oh yes. Oh God, yes. Please, Simon, please.”

  Towels. Marisol smiled as she s
tepped dripping from the shower. He’d even remembered to bring towels this time. The man who thought of everything. Her body glowed as if in agreement. She dried her hair and reapplied her make-up, her mind already on the next phase of the day. When she returned to the living room, he had set the table for a picnic, with bread, cheeses, grapes, tapenade and red wine. He’d even brought a tablecloth and glasses. Still naked, he offered her a grape.

  “Let me get dressed first.”

  “No, I want to watch you eat as you are.”

  Marisol put on her underwear. “If I do that, we both know what will happen and I’ll have to shower all over again. How late is it?”

  “Only two. We have plenty of time, and I know so many ways we could spend it.” He gave her what he obviously thought was a smouldering look.

  “Not today. Too much to do.” She zipped up her dress and checked her phone. No messages. Relieved, she sat at the table and cut herself a slice of Manchego.

  Vasconcellos watched her, his pretty features swelling towards petulance. “I arranged it so there would be no viewings today. We can stay here as long as we want. Anyway, I thought he was in Madrid until tomorrow?”

  “He is. But I have other problems to deal with.” She plucked a handful of grapes. “One of which is your ex-future wife.”

  “My ex-future wife – how does that work?”

  Marisol took a sip of wine and studied the naked man opposite. Beautiful, needy, reasonably smart, potentially powerful, eager to please, very rich and a seriously good fuck. It was a damn shame to let him go. He’d have made an ideal son-in-law. Still, dropping him as Luz’s intended meant their affair could continue for longer. Every cloud …

  “You’re not going to marry Luz. And before you ask, no, it’s nothing to do with us. The stupid little bitch is pregnant.”

  “No way! Luz, pregnant? Jesus. I didn’t even know she was seeing someone.”

  Marisol decided to limit what to share. This kind of gossip was practically hard currency and Vasconcellos would not always be in her thrall. It would be tough to find her daughter any kind of match now, but if the full details emerged, it might be impossible.

  “You aren’t the only one. Arturo and I only found out by accident.” She sighed. “It’s inconvenient, but not a major problem. This morning I took her out of university, tomorrow I’ll take her to my specialist in Bilbao. All over and forgotten by Monday. Then I’ll start the search for someone older, equally wealthy but slightly more desperate than Vitoria’s most eligible bachelor, Simon Vasconcellos. On the bright side, you and I can continue to enjoy each other’s company for a while longer.”

  His concerned expression softened into a smile, then his focus shifted and he gazed at the tapenade. Marisol waited a few moments, aware the vague expression on his face could mean anything from digestion to deep thought. Finally, she got bored, wiped her fingers with a napkin and emptied her glass. If that got no reaction, she’d glance at her watch. He reacted. Turning to her with an intense blaze in his eyes, he reached for her hand.

  “So your daughter loves another man. For my part, I wish her joy. Why don’t you find the baby’s father and see if he wants to marry Luz? Life is short and hard enough, so when an opportunity for joy arises, she should take it. Maybe they’ll be happy together. Happier than she and I could have ever been. What kind of marriage is it when two people swear vows to one another while both are in love with someone else? Yes, that’s right, in love with someone else. I love you. So this is not just a chance for Luz, it’s one for the two of us. Leave Aguirre and be with me, Marisol. I can give you everything you want and more. I’ve never in my life loved a woman the way I love you. I don’t think I ever will. This is our chance.”

  Marisol removed her hand from his grasp and reached up to stroke his face. Their eyes locked and she saw the conviction, the determination, the foolish belief that love could conquer all.

  “Simon, you wonderful, sexy, thoughtful man. Listen to me. You will thank me for the rest of your life for saying this. No. I will not leave Arturo. For someone born as beautiful and privileged as you, it is impossible to understand how some of us need to constantly shore up our positions, strengthen our defences, prepare for enemies where we least expect, and ceaselessly work to maintain our status. I will never leave my husband for you and there will come a day when you’ll be grateful I did not. Nor will Luz marry whichever opportunistic little shit rutted her. She will do the correct thing and stand by the family. Because she is an Aguirre. And so am I.”

  Vasconcellos stared at her without moving. Marisol stood up, brushed off any crumbs and picked up her phone.

  “Thank you for this afternoon. You’re amazing. And if you’re free next Thursday, I’m attending a charity lunch in Santander. We could book a hotel and experiment a little. I was wondering … would you like to see me in my uniform?”

  His eyes changed. She walked round the table and kissed him deeply. He kissed her back with such craven desire her resolve weakened and she found herself reaching beneath the tablecloth.

  Ten minutes later, the Range Rover emerged from the underground car park, nosed out of the driveway and turned in the direction of Vitoria. The driver didn’t look back.

  Chapter 29

  “Oi. I need to get a coffee. Do you want to come in or stay here?”

  Beatrice jolted awake and stared out at the car park. “Where are we?”

  “About twenty minutes from Vitoria, but I’m flagging and I need some caffeine. You can carry on snoring if you like.” Ana unclipped her seatbelt and reached in the back for her briefcase.

  “Yes,” Beatrice yawned. “That might be best. I’ll sit here and keep an eye on things.”

  Ana withdrew her purse and shoved the briefcase behind her. She shook her head with a laugh. “Three glasses? You’re a cheap date. Back in five minutes.”

  Her hair loose, the jacket discarded, Ana looked much more like herself as she strode towards the entrance of the motorway services. Beatrice adjusted her position. Creaky and sticky and rather puffed-up, she needed a shower and a lie-down under cool sheets. She dragged her bag from the back seat and checked her phone. 16.24. No messages. So presumably Matthew and Adrian had nothing to report. Well, she’d be back at the hotel by five-ish and a full report could be delivered over dinner.

  A car reversed towards her from the space opposite. Ana had a habit of parking backwards, presumably to make a quick getaway. That girl really would make an excellent police officer. Beatrice watched a family return to their Opel Corsa, the children’s whiny bleating audible. Too much sugar, bound to be. Why, she wondered, did motorway service stations all over the world attract exactly the same kind of washed-out, tetchy, badly dressed people?

  Still, the journey had been worth it. Not just for that lunch, but her and Ana’s information tallied exactly. The fraud could not be perpetrated from the Aguirre estate. The Control Board lived up to their name and even Aguirre’s influence would not be sufficient to endanger the name of Rioja. So it had to be Alava Exports. Filling an approved bottle with another product made no sense, so they must be making fake labels for sub-standard bottles. Unless something else happened between approval and bottling. Did Aguirre bottle his own produce, or was that part of the Alava Exports service?

  Beatrice picked up her phone again to call Matthew. 16.36. The phone rang before she could press a button, startling her into losing her grip. She snatched it up again. Ana’s name on the display. Probably enquiring as to drinks preferences.

  “Yes? Five minutes, I think you said. You’ve been in there almost quarter of an hour.”

  No response. Beatrice checked the screen. Full signal. She pressed the phone to her ear, peering at the main building.

  “Ana? Are you all right? Ana? Ana!”

  The phone went dead. Beatrice scrabbled to release her seatbelt while redialling Ana’s mobile. It rang and rang and went to answer phone. She looked around the car park again. The bland, boring functional car park had s
hifted into something with shadows, anonymous vehicles and hidden eyes. She got out of the car and went round to the driver’s seat. The keys dangled from the ignition. She yanked them out, locked the car and hurried towards the service station, pressing Ana’s number again. No reply.

  The automatic doors opened, releasing a smell of chips, coffee and fried onions. Beatrice glanced at the café, her eyes scanning and dismissing each dark-haired female in seconds. The shop, full of shouting teenagers; and the toilets, with the inevitable queue of false smiles and sharp eyes were all devoid of anyone resembling Ana. Beatrice hurried back to the main concourse and took several deep breaths, while her eyes assessed each passer-by.

  Stop panicking. Ana pressed the number by mistake. Her phone is at the bottom of her bag and she can’t hear it. Beatrice shook her head at her own reasoning. Ana keeps her phone in her pocket and answers on the first ring like a gunslinger. Her briefcase is still in the car. Which is locked. Where right now, Ana will be standing outside, frowning and holding a take-away coffee.

  Beatrice ducked her way through a crowd of German bikers, but even before approaching the car, she knew Ana wasn’t there. She tried the phone again. Her head, muddled and hot, nagged at her. She’d forgotten something. Her eyes lifted and she saw it. A large black SUV had stopped directly in front of their vehicle, blocking their exit. Two thickset men, the driver and front-seat passenger, turned to stare. The tinted back windows gave nothing away. Blood pumped in Beatrice’s ears as she unlocked the car and sat in the driver’s seat. A pointless exercise, as she couldn’t drive. Her phone beeped. Beatrice jumped.

  The message was from Ana. Short and to the point.

  GO! NOW!

  A car horn made her start once again. A Dutch motorhome behind the SUV expressed its impatience. The black vehicle drove forward, at about two kilometres per hour.

  Beatrice looked back at the screen. Go? Where? Her hand reached for the keys. Everything was wrong. The handbrake, the gearstick, the seatbelt and there was no bloody clutch pedal. An automatic. It was insane. She rarely drove in Britain, so to take a strange car onto the wrong side of Spanish roads whilst in a blind panic was pure madness. The SUV turned left at the end of the row. They’d be back, she knew it. In as much time as it took to circle the car park. Beatrice started the car, as Matthew’s voice surfaced from a half-forgotten memory.