Tread Softly, page 5
“One sec ...” Simon called, messing about with the camera.
Jeremy joined in the sighs, leant on his handlebars and studied the scale of the brickwork from top to bottom. His eyes registered a shape in the water, something oddly natural and yet not. Looked like a marble bust; shoulders, back and upper arms, but no visible head or lower body. Jeremy squinted and he tried to account for the trompe d’oeil with a logical explanation.
“OK, sorry about that. Say Camembert, everyone. Jeremy! Where the hell are you off to?”
“Hold that.” Jeremy swung his leg off the bike and handed it to Laurence. He scrabbled down the slope, annoyed by the uselessness of his cycle shoes on this terrain, focusing on his progress, not his target. He reached the fence and climbed over without a second’s hesitation. Now he kept his eyes on the shape. He could already see it wasn’t marble, or a bust. The indigo lines were veins and the cold blue he had mistaken for stone was pale, dead flesh. A body, face down. Legs dangled into deeper water, obscured by plants and black hair floated gently around the head. He reached the edge of the water and saw a hand bobbing along with the ripples. Fingers which must have held pencils, scratched heads, typed letters and caressed cheeks, now silently decomposing in cold, dark water. Jeremy’s stomach contracted.
“Jez?” Marcus jumped down from the fence. “Something wrong?”
The usual clipped tones were softer and the friendly diminutive didn’t go unnoticed. Relief in familiarity unlocked Jeremy’s jaw.
“I’ll say. Dead body. We should call the authorities. Simon’s best with the lingo. Would you mind giving him a shout?”
The sun crept over the hills in the east, adding a cheerful light to the macabre scene. Yells ricocheted up and down the slope and some of the others came down for a closer look.
“What a horrible way to go.”
“Do you suppose he was fishing and fell in?”
“I doubt it, Laurence. Unless he was fly-fishing in the buff.”
“Poor bugger.”
Jeremy ignored it all. There was something wrong with the legs. Bodies float horizontally, unless something was dragging the ankles down. Jeremy scanned the scene and spotted a dangling branch a few yards ahead. It took seconds to break it off and return to the corpse.
Marcus frowned. “Look here, I wouldn’t touch it if I were you.”
“I’m not going to touch it. I just want to know what’s weighing it down.”
“Best leave that sort of thing to the police, I’d say. For all we know, this could be a crime scene. Jez?”
Crouching on the bank, Jeremy lowered the branch into the water and made a slow sweep beneath the body. He met resistance, as expected, under the legs. So he tried to draw the branch, and the body, closer. But something gave way, the branch broke the surface and Jeremy fell backwards. However, the momentum he had instigated continued, to the dumbstruck horror of the men on the bank. Legs freed, the body sank, rolled and resurfaced, horizontal and face up.
“Jesus Christ!”
Jeremy’s eyes registered the image for only a second before he turned to heave up his breakfast. But no matter how tightly he closed his lids, he would never be able to erase the image of what he’d just seen. A siren approached.
Chapter 8
At the Feira do Vino, all roads lead to Castelo de Aguirre. An exhibition stand to suit his status, at last. The centrepiece, sitting at the junction of five aisles, clearly announced his importance to the world. After attending the biggest trade fair in the country for ten consecutive years, finally, he was king. He’d allowed his daughters to select the décor, on condition he had final veto. The girls proved useful in such roles. He’d suggested red and yellow; dynamic and forceful colours, an attention-grabbing logo and beautiful young girls serving the wine. His daughters turned up their noses in perfect synchrony, comparing his design ideas to the marketing of McDonald’s. Now, returning after a long lunch, he acknowledged his intelligence in allowing them a free hand.
Dark green baize flooring muffled the sounds of footfalls, establishing gravitas. The much-debated backdrop, an artist’s rendering of vineyards, hinted at taste, discretion and subtlety. Three wide steps invited one in, the carved stone bar, gilded tables and chairs with blood-red cushions offered a sense of luxury, and the final touch – welcoming smiles from Paz and Inez. Neither of his daughters could be described as young or beautiful, but their knowledge of the product was second only to his own. Behind the bar, two of his most respected tasters, whose ancient faces resembled the gargoyles on the granite, poured samples and advised visitors. The cumulative effect needed no shrieking logo. Quite simply, here was the real thing. Old World wine, Old World style.
The ebb and flow of guests remained constant during the day, easily managed by the four representatives of the estate, leaving Aguirre to mingle and network. Occasionally he spent an hour or so on the stand. As well as giving the punters an opportunity to meet the man himself, it meant one of the others could take a break, refill the brochure racks, open more bottles, clean glasses and rearrange the furniture. His appearance always guaranteed a swell of interest, not least from the international wine journalists, who appeared with tedious regularity to trot out the same unimaginative questions.
Paz escorted a pair of buyers down the steps, shaking hands and smiling, before turning her attention to her father. Her hair, swept into a French pleat, was a complex arrangement of blonde highlights sprayed into submission.
“Good lunch?” she asked.
“Outstanding.” Aguirre lowered himself into a gilded chair, feeling sleepy and satisfied. “In the eyes of the Denominacion de Origen, I can do no wrong. Everything going well here?”
Paz checked the stand, her eyes sharp. “Yes. That woman over there is a British importer. Inez’s English is better than mine, so she dealt with her. I took the Valencians. They placed a decent order for next year’s Crianza. The couple at the bar are time-wasters, in my opinion. I’ll relieve Salbatore in a minute and get rid of them.”
Aguirre smiled, confident his daughter’s hard-sell charm would chase off the most persistent freeloader. Paz began wiping tables, reorganising displays and restoring the stand to its usual immaculate condition. All the time he watched her, she watched everything else. Nothing escaped her attention; her father, her sister, the employees, the punters. She reminded him of a hawk, scanning her terrain, ready to swoop. They were good girls. Real assets. At least two of his daughters took after him. Luz, unfortunately, had inherited her mother’s stubborn streak. An Aguirre girl at university; it was absurd, indulgent and a waste of time. Yet Marisol seemed to be as proud of Luz reading law as she was of her first grandson. Occasionally he regretted marrying such a short-sighted woman.
His phone rang. Aguirre answered, irritation already in place. As he listened to the hoarse tones relaying the latest, his frown deepened and his jaw muscles tensed. His impatience grew until he could take it no longer.
“Basta! Enough! Take him a case of wine. Tell him to forget it. He knows nothing and there’s nothing to know. The situation has been resolved and a pair of scavenging dogs looking for scraps is no cause for concern. I’ll make sure he’s not bothered again. All he needs to do is keep quiet and talk to no one. Be friendly, but let him know we expect him to keep his head. In fact, say exactly those words; we hope he can keep his head. That should shut him up.”
Aguirre ended the call and scowled. Paz checked his expression and obviously misinterpreted it. She stalked across to the bar, dismissed both bar staff and stretched back her lips in an alarming smile. The bird of prey was on the hunt.
“Señor Aguirre?”
Before he’d even turned his head, Aguirre knew it was a journalist. This one was typical. Too-long hair and dressed in a cheap suit, he had the eager optimism of someone new to the job. The only point of any interest was the camera crew.
Aguirre stood with a charming smile. “Yes, I’m Arturo de Aguirre. How can I help?”
Lights arranged, furry sound boom in position, cameras and faces pointing in his direction drew more attention from passers-by than usual. A shiny sheen of sweat appeared on the journalist’s brow as he checked his equipment. The boy needed to relax; after all, he was dealing with a professional. Aguirre signalled to Paz for one of the cheaper bottles, and with a circular gesture, requested glasses for the whole party. Not only articulate, accessible and an excellent interviewee, but generous. An all-round good guy.
“So, Señor Aguirre, we’re all set. Oh, good idea!” the journalist exclaimed as Paz set the wine on the table between them. “We should have an example of the famous product in shot.”
“Please make sure all our guests are served, my dear,” said Aguirre, nodding at the crew. He returned the appreciative smiles. His mobile vibrated silently against his ribcage, but he ignored it.
Wine served, the young man addressed Aguirre. “I’d like to begin by asking you about the product, its history and finally ask your views on how you explain its amazing popularity. Is that OK?”
“You’re the boss,” responded Aguirre, despite all the evidence to the contrary.
The few curious onlookers had built to a small crowd, all stretching and leaning to get a better view of one of Spain’s best-known icons. The camera operator counted down and, with a quick wipe of his face, the greenhorn began.
“One of the greatest Spanish success stories of the past few years has been the rise of white Rioja. Once the poor cousin to Spain’s flagship red, one vineyard has championed the white Viura grape and boosted demand, both domestic and foreign, for this fresh, citrusy wine. Castelo de Aguirre is the brand which has come to represent the renaissance of the region’s white wine.
“Today, we’re lucky to interview the viniculturist himself, the man behind the brand, Arturo de Aguirre. Thank you for talking to us, Señor Aguirre.”
Aguirre dropped his voice to a more authoritative register. “Happy to oblige. Every opportunity to spread the word is welcome.”
“Can you begin by telling us about white Rioja? What makes it so special?”
Aguirre angled himself towards his interviewer, projecting his voice past the microphone towards the knot of observers. “Everything. From nose to palate to finish, this is an exceptional wine which can stand comparison with any Australian Chardonnay or Californian Sauvignon Blanc. Not only can it compete with the wines of the New World, but it takes on French Chablis, Portuguese vinho verde and Italian Pinot Grigio.”
The journalist took a breath for his next question but Aguirre anticipated him.
“You’re going to ask me why? Good question. Tastes change. For the past two decades, we have seen a trend to the fruit-focused, crowd-pleasing, oaky whites. Easy to drink, higher in alcoholic content and even the driest has a sweetness on the palate. Wines such as our neighbours’ Verdejo or Albariño also favour this tropical fruit robustness. Add to this accessible taste the power of New World marketing, and you understand why the traditional white has fallen out of favour.”
Inexperienced he may have been, but the boy recognised his cue. “But white Rioja is now one of the most popular wines in Europe, grabbing a huge slice of market share from other white wines. Where did this sudden interest in traditional whites spring from?”
Aguirre gave an understanding nod. “Another good question. To find the answer, we must look backwards. Rioja, in contemporary public perception, stands for fine red wine. It was not always so. In the nineteenth century, the region was famous for its white wine. Have you ever asked yourself why red wine is described in Spanish as viño tinto? Tinted wine? Not as in other countries: rouge, rosso, red or negre? Because the majority of the region’s output was white and as a result, subject to higher tax. So the wily viniculturists added a ‘tint’ of red to their best-selling whites, avoiding tax and spreading the name of Rioja all over the globe.”
A murmur rustled through the onlookers. Not only was he an entertaining speaker, but he taught them something as well. He kept his eyes on the journalist.
“Fascinating. So why has the general public, not only at home, but abroad, embraced white Rioja again?”
“If I knew the answer to that, I would retire, right now.” The laughter came, as expected, and this time Aguirre bestowed a gracious smile on his audience.
“All I can do is guess. After twenty years of the mass-produced uniformity of sunny, fruity and disposable wines, the traditional, time-honoured methods have once more been recognised for delivering depth. Open a bulk-produced Chardonnay and a white Rioja and compare. At first taste, the Chardonnay comes out fighting. Consistent to the last drop, it tells you of the maker and his methods. A reliable if unexciting wine. The Rioja, with a more savoury, green-apple note to begin, develops an earthy, mouth-coating taste, revealing its mineral sources, and deferring finally to a buttery lemon finish. A journey from first taste to last, it tells you of the soil, the climate, the land. That is not simply a wine. That is an adventure.”
His rhetoric, his gestures, his passionate evocation of the sensory experience brought forth a round of applause. He spotted Inez and Paz exchanging a look of familiar admiration. Yes, they’d seen it all before. But like a fine Gran Reserva, every year he just got better.
The journalist, quite delighted with his coup, shook Aguirre’s hand more times than was necessary, before finally following his crew to the exit. Or perhaps he was just drunk. Paz had ensured their guests were well-lubricated, just as soon as the interview was over, and the atmosphere was celebratory.
Aguirre slipped into the back room, amongst the wine boxes and publicity material to make a call. It went to voicemail. He smiled. So much the better.
“Tomas, it’s Arturo. Arturo Aguirre. I hear the fire we put out is still smouldering. A collaborative effort is now required. For all our sakes, we must extinguish this once and for all. I know I can count on you. Keep me informed. Goodbye.”
He glared at the cases of his famous product, seeing nothing. This whole business was becoming an irritant. Just like an infection in the vines, it had to be treated at source, otherwise it would spread like a virus, damaging crops, vintages and reputations. Something like this had to be ripped out at the roots. It was time to call in some favours.
Chapter 9
The front door slammed and Beatrice jerked awake. The clock read 08.13. Ana must have left for work. Beatrice threw back the duvet and stared at the carpet. She’d guessed Ana wouldn’t accept this easily. The girl’s lack of respect for authority had come to the fore last night, making it harder to convince her that Beatrice had no choice but to back off. A reluctant truce was reached, after arguing back and forth till gone midnight. Beatrice’s hands were tied but her mind was not. She would stay in the background, advising Ana on techniques and lines of enquiry until the end of the week. Then the girl would be on her own.
To her credit, Ana didn’t sulk, instead giving Beatrice the story Tiago was pursuing; a vanishing junior accountant. Sounded rather dull, but Tiago’s disappearance aroused more suspicion. With everyone, it seemed, but the police. Beatrice shook herself. She would devote no more hours to fuming at that sly, two-faced, duplicitous Milandro. She stomped into the bathroom. Rotten little rat; I have calls to make. He wasted no time. Nasty, untrustworthy snake. To think she’d respected him, when all the while he was waiting to drop her in it. She turned the water to full blast as if to wash away her thoughts.
How frustrating journalism must be. To have almost as many facts and opinions as the police, but without the authority of the law to investigate.
Once dried, dressed and her blisters plastered, Beatrice sought the kitchen.
A note was stuck to the fridge: Help yourself to whatever you fancy. I recommend the rashers. Coffee machine on stove. Back at lunchtime unless any developments. Ana.
Whilst tucking into bacon, eggs and mushrooms, Beatrice made a mind-map of all she knew in pen, adding assumptions in pencil, placing Tiago Vínculo at the centre. She retrieved her tourist guide from her handbag, identifying Tiago’s apartment block and its proximity to El Papagaio. The accountancy firm with the absent accountant sat in the central bank and finance sector. All within spitting distance. She trawled the firm’s photographs, their address, and attempted to read some of the El Periódico archive logged by Tiago. But her poor grasp of even basic Spanish made this a fruitless exercise.
Yes, the Internet opened many doors, but there was no substitute for the real thing. Beatrice wanted to be out there, talking to the people, pressing the editor, checking Tiago’s communications. Impossible. Hamilton would explode in a cloud of indignation and serge suiting if he heard the merest hint of her involvement. And Matthew would most certainly take a dim view of her detour into detecting while she was supposed to be taking a complete break.
Matthew. He had no idea where she was and intended to call the hotel today. She washed up and went in search of her mobile, releasing her hair to do its worst. The sun cast huge rhomboids of light across Ana’s living room, so Beatrice settled into the sofa, tucked up her legs like a cat on a cushion and prepared to put a positive spin on her extended stay in Vitoria.
She was still thinking of the most suitable terminology when running footsteps approached the door. Beatrice got to her feet as a key rattled back and forth. Ana burst in, breathing heavily, but pale as porridge.
“Just heard – a body’s been found – at the bottom of a dam – near the Ullíbarri-Gamboa Reservoir – huge fuss at the paper – water for half the province comes from there – police won’t confirm identity – we have to go – come on – your boss can just swivel.”
She thrust an aggressive middle finger in the direction of the telephone.
Beatrice obeyed and put on her flip-flops; her sense of foreboding and concern growing. But as they hurried down the stairs, she couldn’t help practising that gesture and whispering the word ‘swivel’ with a secretive smile.
