Chapter 2

 

Burke had dealt with police at his front door before and it had never been about good news, but learning Bothwick was dead after they’d been riding together so recently was shocking and for a few seconds Burke found himself barely breathing. It hardly seemed possible. He and his former rival had been casually cycling along a deserted route, chatting, planning what they’d say during the next day’s telecast and then Bothwick had detoured. And turned up dead. It had to be a mistake. And yet two local police officers were telling him otherwise.

“Please sit down, Seῆor,” Ochoa said.

Burke nodded and sat on the spongy couch, grateful because his legs were shaking. He had confronted sudden death before, but it didn’t lessen the impact of the officers’ news.

“What happened?” Burke asked.

“That is what we are looking into,” the policeman replied. “However, I can tell you it appears to be a hit-and-run accident.”

“A hit and run? When? Where?”

Ochoa ignored Burke’s questions, saying, “Please, tell us what the two of you did and when you last saw Seῆor Bothwick. And be precise.”

The other policeman stood nearby, a notebook in hand, ready to scribble anything of interest. Burke wondered if he ever got the chance to talk.

It took Burke a few moments to marshal his thoughts and then he began, telling how they’d planned to cover the last 80 kilometres of the upcoming stage so they could report on it with some knowledge. As he recounted his day with Bothwick, Burke’s brain flooded with images of their ride together and how Bothwick had cracked a couple of corny jokes, his toothy grin making Burke smile.

Bothwick was dead?

“Tell us specifically what route you followed,” Ochoa said.

Burke recounted how he and Bothwick had arranged for one of the sponsors to transfer them and their bikes to Benicàssim where they started. After that, they rode through Oropesa del Mar. Shortly after, they split up.

“And you never saw him again, Seῆor Burke?”

“No.”

“Did you see anything odd?”

“Just before we split up, we rode through an area where we saw almost nothing. No people, no cars, no sign of life. It seemed odd to us.”

Burke noticed the younger officer writing in his notebook.

“And why did you think it was odd?” Ochoa said.

“There were lots of buildings but they seemed abandoned. That might not have been the case, but it sure looked that way. Like I said, there was no sign of life.”

“And why did you split up?”

Burke explained how Bothwick often acted on a whim and how, this time, he’d told Burke he wanted to ride in another direction to check out the area. Before Burke could react, Bothwick had turned and pedaled away on his adventure. When Burke had called out to him, Bothwick hadn’t looked back, just waved and kept riding.

Ochoa nodded. “Tomorrow morning, another officer and I will be going to the area where Seῆor Bothwick died,” he said. “We want you to accompany us and show us exactly where you cycled.”

Burke understood it was more than a polite request. “What time?”

“Eight o’clock sharp. In front of your hotel. Please don’t be late.”

Then they left.

Burke went out to the balcony once more and sat, but not to watch the action below. He needed fresh air and to understand what the flics had told him.

He couldn’t get Colin Bothwick’s grinning face out of his mind.

Dead?

A couple of minutes later, Burke heard his smartphone buzz with a new text. It was from Hélène Rappaneau, his partner back in the old village part of Villeneuve-Loubet along the French Riviera. She asked how his trip was going and said she missed him.

Burke knew Hélène had probably texted during a break from work at her Café de Neptune. He wanted to hear her voice, but understood she’d be busy. Another time would be better. Maybe in the morning after his outing with the local police. He didn’t want to give her the bad news when they couldn’t talk at length.

“Interesting so far,” he texted back. “Will phone you tomorrow in late morning. Love you.”

A moment later, she responded with “Love you, too.”

Burke undressed and climbed into bed. He turned on the TV and started watching a Spanish sit-com, but he couldn’t concentrate. When the canned laughter erupted, he frowned. He couldn’t handle the forced comedy. He changed the channel to a documentary on olive trees, but he could only concentrate on it for a few minutes. Finally, he gave up, turned off the television and went to the small desk where he wrote a blog on his laptop. He talked about the atmosphere in Peῇíscola and didn’t mention Colin Bothwick’s death. Maybe he’d blog about Bothwick another day.

Then he went back to bed, hoping he could manage a good night’s sleep, but doubting he would.