by JJ Marsh
“I’d be delighted. Why do you have to see the police again? We gave them the whole story at least five times yesterday. I even dreamt about it last night. Do you need my moral support?” He assumed a concerned frown.
Beatrice waved a hand in a vague gesture. “That’s very kind of you but this is boring paperwork, more line-of-reporting stuff. I’d be happier knowing you were keeping an eye on Matthew.”
Adrian’s face relaxed. “Rather you than me. So if he’s feeling fit enough to travel, shall I see if I can find us some flights for tomorrow?”
“Yes, please do. Morning if you can manage it. Right, I’d better make a move. Back by six at the latest.”
Adrian glanced at his watch. “Six? A bit more than ‘a short while’, then. Just remember, I’ll need at least an hour to get ready for tonight.”
“Is that all? Don’t worry, I’ll be back in plenty of time. In fact, I’m heading to the police station on foot, with the sole purpose of walking up an appetite.”
And to make sure that no one knew where she was going. In quite the opposite direction to the recently damaged police station, Beatrice headed towards the medium-security custody centre at the Alava Psychiatric Hospital. To interview Arturo de Aguirre.
While receptionists, medics and nurses studied the paperwork behind a glass door, Beatrice concentrated on looking relaxed. There could be no doubt about the authorisation, so it was a matter of patience. She breathed slowly and deeply, assuming her role. In order to convince him, she had to believe it herself. She repeated certain phrases, rehearsed certain emotions and visualised her own body language. Every minute or so, a small voice would ask, Is this the right thing to do? A blazing roar answered in the affirmative.
“Detective Stubbs. Sorry to keep you waiting. It was necessary to check your permission and as you are not on official police business, we have to ask the patient if he is willing to talk.”
Beatrice stared at the earnest young chap in a yarmulke and white coat. She hadn’t even considered Aguirre might have the opportunity to refuse.
“I see. And?”
“Everything is fine. The authorisation is confirmed and Señor Aguirre seems keen to speak to you. Please follow me.”
He led the way past the glass doors and along the grey, muted corridor. Beatrice grabbed her things and followed, as he was still talking.
“It’s such a shame our senior clinician isn’t here today. He would love to have heard about this project of Scotland Yard’s. Research on empathy is his own personal area of expertise. Would you have any time to come back again tomorrow? I know he’ll be disappointed if he misses such an opportunity to discuss your work.”
Beatrice pulled a pained expression. “Unfortunately not. I have an early flight back to London in the morning. But look, here’s my card. He can email me at any time. I’d be delighted to discuss our project with such an expert.”
And she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.
His trainers squeaked as he stopped and he took the card. “A Detective Inspector? How fascinating.” He tucked the card into his breast pocket with a smile. “Thank you. He’ll be so pleased. Here we are. Please observe all security precautions as detailed on the wall. Also, a supervising orderly will attend your interview.”
“That’s not a problem. If I get into any language difficulties, he or she can help.”
The young doctor shook his head as he peered through the window. “Oh no. No, orderlies are there to guarantee safety of both interviewers and patients. Juan is simply your insurance policy and in any case, he doesn’t speak English.”
Just for a second, Beatrice closed her eyes and beamed. Then she followed the verbose young man into the room, forcing her features into an expression of contrition and sorrow.
Jeans and casual shirt notwithstanding, Arturo de Aguirre retained every inch of his dignity, rising from his chair as they entered in a gallant gesture, as if he were receiving her in his office. He exchanged a few words in Spanish with the doctor, who gestured to a tall orderly in white overalls, before turning to Beatrice.
“Nice to meet you, Detective Inspector. Good luck with your project. Juan will see you out after your interview. Have a nice Sunday.”
“Thank you, you’ve been most kind.”
The doctor left, eventually. Beatrice faced Aguirre, who gestured to a chair. His expression was mild, with a hint of a smile.
“Thank you for seeing me, Señor Aguirre. Rejecting my request for a meeting would have been perfectly understandable, under the circumstances.”
Aguirre sat and faced her, his eyes hard. “My understanding is that our conversation is to be informal. This interview is not being recorded and is therefore legally inadmissible in court. There are no witnesses who understand the lingua franca and your permission explicitly states that this conversation is not part of the current criminal enquiry. You have presented a letter of permission from the judicial Spanish police entitling you to discuss the subject of empathy with me. Under such circumstances, I find myself agreeable to a debate on the subject. I will not discuss the charges against me but can offer some insights of value regarding human motivation.”
Beatrice blinked. His grandstanding had lessened not a jot since being incarcerated. She took a moment to retrieve her notebook and pen from her bag.
“I hope you can. I only have a few questions, which should take no more than fifteen minutes. Before we begin, and this is not an attempt to draw any incriminating statements, I’d like to say how sorry I am for the loss of your youngest daughter. I only met her twice but I liked her enormously.”
Aguirre dropped his eyes and inclined his head but did not reply.
“My first question is about something you said on Friday evening. In response to an accusation, you told Professor Bailey he knew nothing of shame. Could you explain what you meant by that remark?”
He clasped his hands together as if about to pray. “I think that is obvious. The man attempted to berate me by invoking my sense of national pride. It was a crude effort, much like the losing poker player accusing the winner of having a better poker face. In order to feel shame, you need to have self-respect. That is what shame is, the direct opposite of pride. My point was simply that the British, in many ways, but let’s stick to wine, have no self-respect, no taste and no pride. Therefore, they cannot feel the opposite. They are not ashamed of themselves.”
In a moment of absolute clarity, Beatrice realised he was lying. And further, he was trying to provoke a reaction. She played it as coolly as possible, continued making gibberish notes and forming her own poker face.
“Thank you. An interesting theory. Perhaps we can pursue that point a little further. You have confessed to the fraudulent export racket ...”
“Confessed? That makes it sound as if I am ashamed, which is not the case. I regard the boom of the Viura grape and the change in the reputation of white Rioja a huge success. Not only that, but selling substandard product to the British for full price has been one of my greatest triumphs.”
Beatrice smiled, observing a man in thrall to his ego. “You have pre-empted my question. I was going to ask if you felt any remorse at having devalued the image of the Spanish wine-making industry, but I can see you do not.”
He snorted. “The expressions of outrage and apologetic hand-wringing you see on television are a diplomatic mask. The wine-making industry, if not the entire gastronomic world of Spain is secretly laughing behind your backs.”
“Really? Well, I’m sure you’re right. Although I can’t say I’ve encountered anyone of that opinion. The word most people are using to describe Castelo de Aguirre is ‘disgrace’. But you’re bound to know best, as they’re unlikely to tell me the truth. Now I have one last question. International wine fraud is one thing, but premeditated murder is another.”
“Correct. While I excel at the first, I deny all charges relating to those men’s unfortunate accidents.”
“I will not ask you any questions re
garding Tiago Vínculo or Miguel Saez, as these are charges yet to be tried in court. However, you claim your daughter’s death was by her own hand. Not yours.”
His eyes seemed to soften, his mouth pinched and his shoulders sagged. The impression was of deepest sorrow. He was quite a player.
“That is the truth. A tragic truth, most certainly. A parent should never suffer the suicide of a child.”
“Why do you think she took her own life?”
He looked up at the ceiling for several seconds before training his eyes on her. “I think you are probably more aware of her reasons than I am. After all, you were the last person to see her before she died.”
Beatrice’s cue. She was ready. She dropped her head and generated a blush. For this performance, every single word must be chosen with precision.
“Yes. I admit to feeling some considerable discomfort at my own role in this sad event. But although I refused to help her, the young woman I walked to the train seemed anything but defeated. This is what I cannot understand. She intended to catch the train back to Burgos and continue with her studies, but she had no intention of giving up her battle.”
Like a cat, aware of the danger but fatally curious, he watched her: suspicious, alert but unable to resist.
“I’m not sure what you mean by ‘her battle’. Why on earth would she need your help?”
The balance had shifted and he knew it. The contemptuous emphasis sealed her conviction that he was still attempting to crack her composure with increasingly feeble blows. Beatrice gazed wistfully into the distance and brought out the big guns.
“I don’t have children, Señor Aguirre. Something I don’t regret. But hearing Luz use every ounce of passion she possessed to persuade me to drop my investigation into Castelo de Aguirre ... well, I realised I would never know such filial loyalty. Such fierce love. I couldn’t agree to her request, of course I couldn’t. But I said goodbye with nothing but admiration for her efforts. I was deeply touched by her love for you.”
She shook herself and sought his eyes. “As I said, I only met her twice but I won’t forget her. A true lion heart. But at that stage, we had all the information we needed and arrests were imminent. Our informant had delivered all the proof we needed to go to Interpol. We’d realised by then that Salgado was corrupt and chose to effect our operation ...”
“Stop.” His body seemed frozen, all his energy concentrated in his eyes. “Luz wanted you to leave me alone?”
Beatrice feigned puzzlement. “Of course. She’s not, sorry, she wasn’t stupid. When she drove me back from the Castelo the first time, she asked some very searching questions. She knew who I was. The day she went back to university, she came to the hotel specifically to ask me to leave Vitoria and forget the story. In fact, she was so determined, I almost had her in the frame for the witness murders. But our contact had already identified Tomas and friends.”
“Your contact?”
Beatrice gave him a reproving look. “You know I can’t divulge that information. A good police officer should always protect her sources.”
“But you’re on sabbatical. Officially, you aren’t a police officer at the moment.”
And all that is left is to reel him in.
Beatrice looked at her watch. “I must go. You’ve been most kind and very informative. I will see you again, when the case comes to trial, naturally.”
She placed her notebook and pen back in her handbag and lifted the card.
Aguirre leant forward, his arms on the table. “If not for me, for my daughter. Tell me the name of the mole.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t do that.” Beatrice stood. “But I will say congratulations. I understand your daughter Inez is expecting her first. That must be some consolation under the circumstances. Goodbye, Señor Aguirre. Thank you for your time.”
She held out her hand. He got to his feet. His eyes bored into her and she had no idea if he would spit, shout or accept the gesture. If he didn’t, she’d have to find another way. Eventually he reached out and shook her hand. To his credit, he betrayed no surprise. The orderly opened the door and Beatrice exited the room.
She walked in a straight line, following the white shoes, concentrating on her breath, her steps and the image in her head. Aguirre alone, sitting at that table, looking at the business card she’d slipped into his hand.
Jaime Rodriguez, Editor of El Periódico.
Chapter 44
“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” Ana flopped into her seat, shrugged off her jacket and brushed her hair out of her eyes. Her face was free of make-up and evidently tired, yet she looked lit from within.
“Left at ten to eight but I couldn’t get a cab for love nor money so had to go back for the Vespa. I’m so shagged I can’t tell you. How’re you doing, Matthew? How’s the head?”
Matthew raised his glass of sparkling water. “I’ve sufficiently recovered to try another local brew. I’m very glad you made it. I know it must be enormously stressful at the paper today.”
“Stressful? I’ve never known a day like it. Manic from morning to night. Where’s the waiter? I have a desperate thirst. What’s the story with the flights, Adrian? Good God, you’re looking sharp enough to cut yourself.”
Adrian smiled the smile of a compliment well-earned. “Thank you. And I must say, after fourteen hours in the office, you don’t look anywhere near as wrecked as I’d expect. That’s the joy of fine bones, you see. We’re flying out at quarter to ten in the morning. So tonight is both a celebration and a farewell.”
“You have a way with words, my man. Can I have a swig of your water?”
Beatrice hailed the waiter and ordered two bottles of cava and more water. A beeping came from Ana’s jacket and she snatched up her phone. Her face softened into a smile. She turned the screen to Beatrice, and then to Matthew and Adrian.
The image showed three laughing lads holding beer bottles – Kev, Jase and Tyler. And the sender and text beneath hadn’t escaped Beatrice’s notice.
“Looks like the stag weekend has begun in earnest,” she said.
Ana looked at the picture once more. “I’d say it has. Lock up your daughters, Bilbao.”
“And apparently you’re joining them tomorrow?” Beatrice kept her enquiry light and innocent, as she continued to butter her roll.
Ana snorted with laughter and shook her head. “I should have known you’d spot that. You don’t miss a trick, do you? Yes, all right, I’m joining them for lunch. Kev invited me. He seems like a decent bloke.”
“Definitely,” Adrian agreed. “Not to mention totally ripped.”
The waiter brought an ice bucket and the first bottle of cava.
“Ana, you must be exhausted. Do you need to de-brief or would you rather just enjoy the food?” Matthew asked, with classic avuncular concern.
“Food first, no doubt about it. But I have updates, unless you’re sick to death of the whole thing. Would you ever pass the bread over, Matthew? My stomach feels like my throat’s been cut.”
They ordered chorizo, quails’ eggs, tortilla, Gernika peppers, kidneys in sherry, octopus, three kinds of ham, green beans and asparagus, with plenty of bread.
As the plates arrived, Beatrice saw Matthew’s eyes widen and a sense of calm settled on her. Not every Beatrice-related experience meant disaster. Meanwhile, Ana ate and talked at a similar speed.
“All four of Aguirre’s muscle men refuse to talk. Aguirre himself accepts all the wine fraud charges, but won’t even discuss the murders. Still insists Luz killed herself. The whole guilt-over-pregnancy deal is blown, as the autopsy showed she wasn’t.”
“Do they know if the test belonged to her sister?” asked Beatrice.
“Haven’t heard yet, but that’s the premise I’m working. Salgado is subject to an internal police investigation. Word is that it’s going to be a slap on the wrist and early retirement. Milandro’s slated to take over. New broom and all that. God, this ham with the acorn oil – I could just roll in it. Now we’re not t
alking just the police, but governmental organisations, media and major companies. Lots of dirty fingers in mucky pies. Everyone’s likely to get splattered now the shit has hit the fan. Ah, sorry, we’re eating.”
Adrian bit into a tiny egg and followed it with a nibble of asparagus. “Don’t worry. It would take more than that to put me off this food. You know, I’m almost looking forward to coming back for the trial. We simply must revisit this place. Every mouthful is a joy. Now what about Jaime?”
Beatrice stopped chewing.
Ana shook her head. “No sign. My guess is the Aguirre network set him up elsewhere, new identity, the whole shebang. Turns out Jaime Rodriguez wasn’t even his real name. Dirty little scumbag slipped the net. If I could get my hands on that stinking heap of ...”
“You won’t,” said Beatrice, prodding a kidney. “Write him off and focus on the trial. The Aguirres will take care of their own.”
She felt the weight of Matthew’s gaze, but raised her glass as deflection.
“A toast. To a successful collaboration and justice served.”
Glasses glinted and sparkled, as three voices repeated her words.
“Justice served!”
They drank, met each other’s eyes and returned to the spread. In the contented appreciative silence, Beatrice made another decision. Her sabbatical was over. It was time to get back to work.
Dedications
Behind Closed Doors
For Bonnie and Clive – wish you were here
Raw Material
To Janet and Terry – for being you
Tread Softly
For Florian – with love, respect and admiration
Message from JJ Marsh
I hope you enjoyed The Beatrice Stubbs Boxset One.
If so, there’s another bundle of three ready and waiting.
BOXSET TWO
Cold Pressed