Tread Softly, page 1
Also by JJ Marsh
Behind Closed Doors
“Beatrice Stubbs is a fascinating character, and a welcome addition to crime literature, in a literary and thought-provoking novel. I heartily recommend this as an exciting and intelligent read for fans of crime fiction.” – Sarah Richardson, of Judging Covers
“Behind Closed Doors crackles with human interest, intrigue and atmosphere. Beatrice and her team go all out to see justice is done. And author JJ Marsh does more than justice to the intelligent heroine who leads this exciting and absorbing chase.” – Libris Reviews
“Hooked from the start and couldn’t put this down. Superb, accomplished and intelligent writing. Ingenious plotting paying as much attention to detail as the killer must. Beatrice and her team are well-drawn, all individuals, involving and credible.” – Book Reviews Plus
Also by JJ Marsh
Raw Material
“I loved JJ Marsh’s debut novel Behind Closed Doors, but her second, Raw Material, is even better. Beatrice Stubbs is back in the UK, reluctantly dealing with the case of a flasher who seems likely to become something more dangerous.
While Beatrice is fully occupied with the London crime, Matthew, and Beatrice’s neighbour, Adrian, decide to investigate in Wales and what starts out as a light-hearted caper turns into something horribly grim. The truth is more terrible than Matthew, Adrian, or even Beatrice, could ever have imagined and the final chapters are heart-stoppingly moving and exciting.” Chris Curran, Amazon reviewer
“Some rather realistic – if not particularly laudable – human exchanges reveal honest personal struggles concerning life’s bigger questions; the abstruse clues resonate with the covert detective in me; and the suspense is enough to cause me to miss my stop. From it I learn the importance of human interactions and the power of short, catchy half-sentences at strategic points. I’ve discovered I’m not JJ Marsh.” – Vince Rockston, author
Tread Softly
JJ Marsh
Copyright © 2012 by JJ Marsh
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.
Cover design: JD Smith
Published by Prewett Publishing.
All enquiries to admin@beatrice-stubbs.com
First printing, 2013
ISBN 978-3-9523970-8-4
For Florian, with love, respect and admiration
Acknowledgements
With grateful thanks to the readers who helped wrestle this novel book into shape: Sheila Bugler, Jane Dixon-Smith, Gillian Hamer, Liza Perrat and Catriona Troth (Triskele Books); The Writing Asylum; Lorraine Mace, Julie Lewis and Alison Lopez. I’d also like to thank Aine, Zak and David Ambrose for their invaluable help and insights; Carl Knobel of weinpassion for sharing his expertise; Jane Dixon-Smith and James Lane for their visual talents, Darren Guest for forcing me to change the title and Julie Lewis for leading me to this one.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 1
The bells struck seven. Tiago was late. Taking a last swig of Estrella Galicia for luck, he gathered keys, mobile, jacket, the CD and the flowers. Were roses too much? Maybe if they were red, signalling an obvious agenda. But yellow should be innocent enough. No, leave them, it’s embarrassing. No, take them, it’s a lovely gesture. Yellow rosebuds could signify the start of something.
Gazing into the fragrant whorls was only making him later, definitely a negative message on a first date. He ran out the door, leaping the stairs three at a time. On the second landing, Doña Llorente, complete with shopping, dogs and inhaler, blocked his path. He greeted her with a wave, the spaniels with a pat, and on impulse, thrust the flowers into her hand.
With a gallant bow, he slipped past before she got her breath back. He hit the street and recognised a smart decision. Ana wouldn’t want flowers. Independent music with quirky artwork, perhaps, but no old-fashioned gestures. The right choice. Saved from cliché and into Doña Llorente’s good books.
His instinct to reach for a cigarette was countered by a desire for fresh breath. At least for the greeting kisses. His smile spread as he recalled the email. Not only word for word, but every single character.
Meet me @ El Papagaio on Sunday, 19.00.
Let’s NOT talk about work. Ax.
One extra letter. An X. Its effect was disproportionate, but still. Ana Luisa Herrero had sent him a kiss. It had taken him an hour and a half to compose a reply, and another fifteen minutes debating the pros and cons of adding a kiss.
OK. Looking forward to it. Tx
He sped up, almost breaking into a run.
The uplight illuminated a cartoonish parrot, painted in primary colours, as he approached the door. A solitary smoker stood outside, leaning against an empty table. He didn’t return Tiago’s Buenas tardes.
The restaurant was unusually empty. But Tiago only ever came in here on week nights after work, so had no idea about the bar’s weekend trade. Two men sitting at a corner table looked up and nodded. The only other person was a barman Tiago didn’t recognise. Strange not to see Enrique. Perhaps he didn’t work weekends.
But most importantly, Ana was later than him. Relieved, he sat facing the door. He would order two beers. Or should he wait? No, he needed a drink. And maybe some olives, mainly to give him something to do with his hands. He sent her a rapid text message.
The barman approached, unsmiling.
“Two beers and a ...”
“She’s in the back.” He jerked his head towards the rear of the room.
Tiago glanced in the same direction and frowned.
The barman shrugged. “She said you should go in the back. She’s waiting.”
Tiago scrambled from his seat, confused. In all the time he’d been coming here, he’d never been ‘in the back’. He didn’t even know there was another room. Was it the same sort of ‘back room’ as the one in Gatos? Everyone knew what went on in that kind of place. He got up and followed the barman’s louche stroll. He knew he was being watched.
The lack of clientele, the new barman, the silence ... something felt wrong. He stopped. The front door opened and the smoker returned, locking the door behind him. Tiago’s pulse pounded as the barman pressed a hand to his shoulder, guiding him firmly through the door. When he resisted, he was shoved forwards, falling across the jamb onto all fours. Fear shot through his veins like acid as he tried to make out where he was.
A door opened ahead of him, blue light and cold air spilling into the dark corridor. The fridge room. His scalp contracted as he saw the chair inside, with attachments. Every nerve urged him to run, but he had no idea which way. He pushed himself to his feet and turned to face the men behind him.
“What’s going on? What do you want?”
Without answering, they moved forwards. He attempted to duck past, tripped over rubbish bags and landed on the floor.
They dragged him to his feet and into the fridge. He twisted and bucked like a fish on a line, but the smoker and barman wrestled him into the chair. His arms were cuffed behind him, his legs spread and secured at knees and ankles with leather straps. Shallow breaths made small panicky clouds in the cold air as he tried to keep from shaking. He heard the suction of the closing door. He scanned the four unfamiliar faces, searching for an explanation. The two older men from the corner table were relaxed and unhurried. One had a missing forefinger, the other’s face sagged on one side. A pair of tough old tomcats. The smoker and the barman, both built like bulls, wore identical tense expressions. Muscle, no doubt. But who the hell would send four heavies after him? And where did Ana fit in?
His voice was unsteady. “Look, I don’t know what the problem is, but we can work something out, I’m sure. Please, can we talk? What have I done?”
No one moved.
The greyer of the tomcats spoke. His voice was hoarse and creaky, as if it didn’t get out much.
“No, Tiago. No more talking. That is part of your problem. You were
Tiago shook his head, unable to speak, blinking to clear his vision. He had no idea what warnings he was talking about. No one had tried to dissuade him from pursuing Ana. His colleagues even encouraged him. Were these men some Portuguese relatives come to defend her honour? He hadn’t even kissed her yet.
“You see, Tiago, it’s like gambling. Only join the game if you can afford to take the losses.”
Two figures approached, but through his flooded eyes, he could no longer differentiate between individuals. As he rocked and yanked against his restraints, he squeezed his lids shut and screamed, a desperate howl bouncing off white-tiled walls and indifferent ears. When his lungs could produce nothing more than hyperventilating gasps, the hoarse and rasping voice came to its conclusion.
“When a man sticks something where he shouldn’t, he must be prepared to lose it.”
Chapter 2
The smell of flesh was giddying. Chorizo, sausage, cecina and air-dried hams hung overhead; pintxos arrayed on the bar looked like individual works of art, spiked anchovies, layered peppers, tortilla slices and salted cod vying for attention; and the glass of Txakoli, wearing a light coat of condensation, reflected the sunshine streaming through the windows.
Beatrice sighed with anticipation. It was very hard to make a decision. She gazed at the shoppers on Calle de Edouardo Dato and caught her reflection in the glass door. Good God, she looked almost happy! An involuntary smile; things must be improving. She showed the barman her snacks, although the quantity stretched the definition of the word, and settled into a leather banquette to enjoy her lunch.
Content to observe the patrons and eavesdrop on the intriguing sounds of Basque, she chose not to pick up her novel, her guidebook or her map. The bar seemed a popular location for workmen, who stayed mere minutes, washing down their tapas with beer or cups of wine. She enjoyed the respectful nods she received from each new wave of diners and began to feel quite at home.
Meal over, she lined up her toothpicks so the barman could count them and charge her accordingly. It reminded her of Go Sushi! in Hoxton, another ‘healthy’ place which cruelly tempted diners into over-indulgence. Thoughts of home swelled a dull yearning. Not homesickness. Not nostalgia. Just an ache for the familiar. How absurd. She’d only been in Spain a week.
She ordered another glass of rosé, picked up her phone and dialled the Classics and Ancient History Department of Exeter University. Hang the expense, she needed to hear his voice.
“Professor Bailey, good afternoon?”
“Hello Matthew, it’s me.”
“Beatrice? Are you all right?”
“Absolutely. Only phoning to make you jealous. I’ve just finished the most wonderful lunch in a Spanish bar. They have these tapas things, but bigger. I’ve never seen such imaginative use of anchovies.”
His relief was audible. “You are a truly heartless woman. I’m sitting here, grading first-year essays, grinding my teeth and weeping. These people use apostrophes as decoration, scattering them across their texts like glitter. And for my lunch, I had tinned ravioli.”
Beatrice gave a belly laugh and checked to see if she was disturbing other diners. But all heads were turned in the opposite direction. A young brunette walked through the gaggle of blue-clad workers, ignoring their undisguised ogling and semi-audible comments. She spotted Beatrice and, with a friendly smile, seated herself at the bar.
Beatrice returned her attention to Matthew. “Now I know you’re lying. You would never eat tinned ravioli.”
“Ordinarily not. However, I was babysitting Luke this morning and he baulked at what his mother had provided for his lunch. Seemed a shame to waste it. But now I understand the poor little chap’s reservations. Hideous slop. He made short work of my carrot soup instead. You see, my grandson already shows excellent taste. How are you enjoying ... where are you now? Santander?”
“Vitoria-Gasteiz today. And tomorrow. Glorious. I’ve barely even scratched the surface, so I think I’ll hang on for a couple of days. Rest my feet.”
The brunette, quite unmistakeably, was listening. Not only that, but watching Beatrice in the mirror. Her long hair, like a chocolate waterfall, cascaded down a suede shirt. The textures lent a softness to her unapproachable air.
“Oh dear. You need to go easy on the feet, at your age. Have you seen the Artium yet?”
“It’s not my feet, it’s my shoes. Blisters. And anyway, I’m all arted out after the Guggenheim. The Artium’s on the agenda for tomorrow. Tonight I’m meeting a connection of Tanya’s, the exchange student, pen-friend, whatever she is. She stayed with us one summer, remember?”
“Of course. Andrea Something?
“Ana Something. Lord knows if I’ll recognise her. Last time I saw her, she was all elbows and knees with a mouth full of metal. She’s taking me for parillada de mariscos.”
He exhaled. “How I wish I could join you. My particular weakness is fresh seafood. But envy, I remind myself, is a deadly sin. Now, it’s mid-afternoon and your calling me via mobile is ruinously expensive. Enjoy your siesta and I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Are you keeping out of trouble, Old Thing?”
“Believe me, I am the picture of innocence. Everything is fine, Matthew, and I’m enjoying a rest from it all. Love to the girls and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Very well. Hurry back, in your own time.”
She smiled and ended the call. Before she even replaced the handset in her bag, the dark-haired girl had approached, standing opposite. Her expression was expectant.
“Beatrice Stubbs.” The accent disconcerted Beatrice, evoking more of an Irish Colleen than a Spanish Carmen. Her face, open and intelligent, bore signs of tension in the upper lip and brow.
“Correct. And you are ...?”
“Ana Something.” She smiled.
“Good Lord.” Beatrice assessed the soft skin, straight white teeth and elegant proportions. The laughter in the girl’s eyes gave the only clue to the gauche exchange student she had met nine years earlier.
“Or Ana Luisa Herrero, if you want the whole story.” She held out her hand. Beatrice shook it, still lost for words.
Ana slid into the seat opposite, rested her elbows on the table and looked into Beatrice’s eyes. “Guess how I found you?”
“I’ve no idea. Sniffer dog?”
The girl laughed, drawing attention from the whole bar. “I’m a journalist. Getting information out of people is my speciality. It’s good to see you again. Must be, what, ten years? But I remember you very well. Mainly because you didn’t patronise us and enjoyed good food. And because you were a police detective with the London Met. Apart from an air hostess, I couldn’t think of a cooler job.”
Beatrice recovered her voice. “Well, I thought I remembered you, but I would never have recognised that girl ...”
“... all elbows and knees with a mouth full of metal? Ah, don’t worry. Serves me right. I shouldn’t have been earwigging.”
“Earwigs never hear good of themselves. No, what I wanted to say is that you have blossomed into a genuine beauty, Ana. And you wear it well.”
“Cheers. Anyway, I went to your hotel. A stranger in Vitoria is going to ask for tapas recommendations, right? I spoke to the receptionist and tracked you down.”
“Congratulations. But while I applaud your skill, I can’t help asking myself why you would bother? We have an appointment this evening, and I feel sure I gave you my mobile number in case of difficulties. Why did you need to track me here?”
The girl’s face darkened, her focus turned inward and her whole body seemed to sag.
“Beatrice, I’m after your help. And I needed to explain to you in person. A colleague and I have been working on a particular story. We think we’ve found something suspicious. The problem is that he’s disappeared.”
“Your colleague?”
Ana nodded, her jaw clenched. “We all had a drink together after work on Friday. But this morning, he didn’t turn up for work and missed the weekly update. I had to busk it on his behalf. I’ve called him and been round to his apartment, but there’s no reply.”
