‘And you didn’t speak to him the next day?’ It is difficult to hear Zulaika’s question above the noise of the horn.
‘I’m sorry?’
He speaks slightly louder. ‘I said, you didn’t speak to him again after your meeting?’
‘No. But we spoke on the day he disappeared. He called to confirm a fact for my report.’
‘What fact?’
That was careless of me. Never volunteer information unless it has been specifically requested. I may have told Goena about the call on Thursday, but there was no need to enlighten Zulaika.
‘I just wanted to know the likely result of a referendum on Basque independence. If it went to a vote immediately, Arenaza said that Madrid would probably win.’
‘He did?’ Zulaika looks doubtful. ‘I disagree. It is Ahotsa’s view that this would not happen. We have conducted our own independent research and, if trends continue, the likelihood of both Basque and Catalan independence within the next five years is considerable.’
‘Well, I’ll be sure to put that in my report,’ I reply, grateful for the diversion. The horn finally stops and, by twisting round in my seat, I can see a white van out of the window pulling into the street, freeing the trapped car. Zulaika appears to have run out of questions, because he flips over two sheets of A4, revealing nothing but blank pages underneath. When he closes the notebook, he takes a sip of water and finds a new line of enquiry.
‘How would you have characterized Mr Arenaza’s mood on the night of your meeting?’
‘Friendly. Affable. Helpful. I liked him. I would have liked to meet him again. What do the police think has happened?’
The question is ignored.
‘Helpful in what way?’
‘In the sense that he wanted me to enjoy his city. Helpful in the sense that he answered my questions. He was charismatic. He was sociable. I was expecting somebody more… aggressive.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, let’s just leave that in the realm of speculation.’
Zulaika doesn’t like the inference here, the terrorist prejudice. He lights another cigarette, probably to annoy me. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll blow it away from your face,’ he says, and makes a point of moving the ashtray onto the laptop briefcase. ‘Why are you here in Madrid, Alec?’
‘Is that relevant?’
‘It’s just background.’
‘I’ve been living here for about five years.’
‘And all that time working for Endiom?’
‘No. About half.’
‘What is the company’s link to Mikel Arenaza?’
‘There isn’t one, as far as I’m aware. Julian Church is a personal friend, that’s it. You’d have to ask him that.’
‘And you don’t know why Mr Arenaza was coming to Madrid?’
‘Like I said, I really don’t know.’
‘He calls you two hours before he’s due to get on a plane and doesn’t mention that he’s on his way here?’
‘It would seem so.’
Where is Zulaika getting such precise information? From Goena? Does he have a contact at the phone company? I need to find a way of deflecting his questions.
‘And you didn’t know where he was planning to stay?’
‘Look. You must understand that by asking me these questions again and again, you’re essentially accusing me of lying. And I don’t like being accused of lying, Mr Zulaika. I’ve told you that I met the guy for tapas two weeks ago. It’s just a grim coincidence that he should have telephoned me on the day he disappeared. I didn’t know he was coming to Madrid, so I didn’t know what hotel he was booked into. And I have absolutely no idea where the fuck he is.’
‘Of course.’
‘Fine.’
‘So you won’t mind if I go back to work.’
16. Peñagrande
Over the next few days I experience an odd transformation in temperament, as if – like Zulaika, like the police – I cannot rest until I find out what happened to Mikel. Call it boredom, call it the smell of a conspiracy, but I can’t just sit at home, forever guarding my privacy, while his family and friends go nuts over the disappearance. If Mikel is shacked up with Rosalía, so be it. But something tells me that that is not the case. Something tells me that Arenaza is in deep, possibly unrecoverable trouble. And I am in a unique position to be able to help him.
Tracing Rosalía proves surprisingly easy. Mikel said that she was attending a conference on renewable energies at the Hotel Amara Plaza in San Sebastián when they met, so I simply call the hotel reception desk, pretend to be an employee of the Institute of Industrial Engineers putting together a newsletter for a website, and ask for a list of all the delegates who attended the conference to be faxed to me in Madrid. I give the number of a Mail Boxes Etc. outlet on Calle de Juan Alvarez Mendizábal and within forty-five minutes a six-page document has been spooled through to the shop. I didn’t even need to speak to the hotel’s PR department; the concierge did the whole thing for me without the slightest hesitation. On the third page of the fax, the name ‘Dieste, Rosalía Cristina’ appears next to her job description (‘Research Scientist’), a list of qualifications (including a five-year licenciatura from the Universidad Politécnica de Madrid) and the name of the company which employs her: Plettix S.L. A quick flick through the telephone directory locates their offices in Peñagrande, a godforsaken suburb in north-west Madrid. I call to arrange an appointment just after five o’clock on Thursday.
‘Good afternoon, could I speak to Rosalía Dieste, please?’
‘I’m afraid she’s left for the afternoon.’ The receptionist sounds chirpy and speaks with a heavy Extremaduran accent. ‘It was actually her last day here. Is there somebody else who might be able to help?’
I was going to pretend to be the science correspondent from an obscure British quarterly seeking an interview, but this changes the strategy considerably.
‘I’m not sure.’ Somehow I have to find a way of getting to Rosalía before she leaves the company for good. Thankfully the girl produces a little laugh, acknowledging that I have stumbled on a coincidence, and offers up a possible solution.
‘She had to go home early because we’re all meeting for a drink,’ she says. ‘Rosalía wanted to get ready.’
And I think quickly now.
‘Well, that’s actually why I was calling. I’m an old colleague of Rosalía’s from the Universidad Politécnica. I was supposed to be coming to the party but I wasn’t sure if it was today or tomorrow. She’s not answering her mobile. Do you happen to know where the bar is?’
And the receptionist, thank God, is the gullible, uninquisitive sort. ‘Sure. It’s just across the street. The Sierra y Mar, in the basement of the Edificio Santiago de Compostela. Do you know our offices?’
‘Of course. Of course.’ The thrill of the lie is like an old friend. ‘I can find it no problem.’
But there’s not much time. As soon as I have hung up, I grab a book, my coat and keys and head straight to the garage under Plaza de España. The Audi is low on petrol, but there’s enough fuel to get me twenty minutes north to Peñagrande, where I park beside the entrance to the metro station on a street devoid of people. The barrio is just like any other post-nuclear suburb in twenty-first-century Spain: a dusty wasteland of towering concrete apartment blocks, down-at-heel corner shops and tatty bars. Roads come at you from all directions. Across an abandoned lot strewn with litter and dead plants, the incongruously smart offices of Plettix S.L. rise up in a gleam of steel and glass. I walk down a wide, featureless avenue and cross a bridge spanning the M30 motorway. The Edificio Santiago de Compostela is one hundred metres downhill to the left, situated immediately alongside the Plettix headquarters and set back from the road by about thirty feet. The Sierra y Mar looks smart and clean and obviously serves as a meeting point for employees working in both buildings; a place to eat lunch, a place to drink coffee. I walk in and settle at the bar, just a few paces from the door, ordering a caña which comes with two gherkins and a pickled onion skewered onto a cocktail stick. There are four other customers on the premises: a construction worker sitting on a tall stool beside me; a courting couple unabashedly kissing at a table near the door; and an old man drinking coffee on the other side of the bar, which breaks at a 90-degree angle to my right. This is where the book comes in handy; with any luck, Rosalía’s colleagues will start pitching up for the party within about half an hour, and I will need something to occupy myself in the intervening period.