have yet been found. I call Julian from the Endiom mobile and discover that he too has spoken to Goena and was able to offer little in the way of helpful information. He did not know, for example, that Arenaza was planning to come to Madrid, nor had he seen the article in El Pais. Indeed, he sounds curiously uninterested in the whole episode and even makes a joke to lighten the mood of our conversation.
‘What did you do, Alec? Pack him in cement boots and drop him in the Atlantic? You got him hiding in your cellar, boot-of-the-car job, drowned in the attic water tank?’
In the circumstances I don’t find this funny, but summon a boss-flattering laugh. ‘Actually I never saw him after San Sebastian.’ Then Julian asserts, with baseless confidence, that ‘old Mikel will surface in a day or two’ and we bid one another farewell.
But things go from bad to worse.
The following morning, the Nokia rings at 8.05 a.m., shaking me from a deep sleep. An assertive-sounding Spaniard, this time with impeccable English, asks to speak – ‘immediately please’ – to ‘Mr Alexander Milius’.
‘I’m Alec Milius. What time is it?’
‘It is eight o’clock.’ The voice is young and humourless and offers only a scant apology for calling so early. ‘My name is Patxo Zulaika. I am a reporter with the Ahotsa newspaper in Euskal Herria. I need to ask you some questions concerning the disappearance of Mikel Arenaza.’
I again look at the clock. It’s going to be harder to think my way around any questions before at least having a shower and a cup of coffee.
‘Couldn’t we do this later?’
‘We could, yes, we could, but a man’s life is at stake.’ This baffling overstatement is delivered without a hint of irony. ‘It is my understanding that you have already spoken to the police. I am currently in Madrid and would like to arrange to meet you this morning.’
Zulaika must have got my number from Goena. I sit up out of bed, clear my throat, and try to stall him.
‘Look, could you call back? I have company.’
‘Company?’
‘Somebody here.’
He sounds suspicious. ‘Fine.’
‘Thank you. Maybe in an hour or two? I’ll be at my desk.’
But there’s scarcely enough time in which to think clearly. On the stroke of nine o’clock, Zulaika rings back, tenacious as a dog with a bone. I’ve had a quick shower, answering the phone in my dressing gown.
‘Mr Milius?’ Still pushy, still over-familiar. ‘As I explained earlier, I would like to meet you to discuss the disappearance of the Batasuna councillor Mikel Arenaza. It is a matter of great importance to the Basque region. What time would you be free today?’
There’s no point in stalling him. His sort never give up. ‘What about later this morning?’
‘Perfect. I understand that you work for Endiom.’
‘That’s right.’ Perhaps he has already spoken to Julian.
‘Would their offices be suitable or do you have a different location that you prefer?’
I tell him it would be better to meet nearer my house and set a time at Cascaras, the tortilleria where I eat breakfast on Ventura Rodriguez. He takes down the address and we arrange to meet at eleven.
In the intervening period I buy most of the Spanish dailies. No new information has emerged about Arenaza. The story continues to feature prominently in the news pages and I find Zulaika’s by-line in Ahotsa. A Basque waiter I know in the barrio is able to translate the main points of his story, but it would still appear that the police have very few leads. At no point do any of the journalists reporting the disappearance mention Rosalia Dieste. I make a decision not to mention her name to Zulaika. However, our initial telephone conversations may have been interpreted as evasive, so it will be important to seem co-operative. To that end I get to Cascaras fifteen minutes early, find a quiet table near the back and offer him a wide, diplomatic smile when he walks in.
‘You must be Patxo.’
‘You must be Alec.’
I have stood up, coming out from behind the table to shake his hand. Zulaika is wearing ironed jeans, cheap shoes and a scruffy tweed jacket, the clothes of a boy at boarding school on exeat.
‘How did you recognize me?’ he asks.
‘I didn’t. It just seemed likely that it was you. Your face fits your voice.’
In truth, Zulaika is even younger than he sounded on the phone. I would put his age at no more than twenty- five, although he is wearing a wedding ring and going bald around the widow’s peak. He has the still, humourless face of a zealot and makes a point of continually meeting my eye. Something close to a deranged sense of entitlement is apparent in these initial moments. He tries to take control of the meeting by asserting a need to sit nearer the window, questioning the bright yellow decor with his eyes and squinting at the reproduction Miros and Kandinskys. Now that he’s got me where he wants me, he’s not even going to bother thanking me for giving up my time.
‘So, you’re in town investigating the disappearance?’
‘I am Ahotsa’s senior correspondent in Madrid,’ he replies, as if I should have known this already. ‘This is the story that I’m working on at present. How did you meet Mr Arenaza?’
No preliminaries, no pause before what will almost certainly be a long and detailed interview. Zulaika has a spiral-bound notebook in front of him, two ballpoint pens and a shopping list of questions, in Basque, written in a neat hand on three pieces of lined A4. He also came in carrying a battered laptop briefcase which is currently leaning against my leg beneath the table. At some point I might move my foot, just so that it falls to the floor.
‘Well, I was introduced to him by my manager, Julian Church, at Endiom. They’re old friends. I was up in San Sebastian on business a couple of weeks ago and he put me in touch.’
Zulaika doesn’t write down Julian’s name, which would suggest that he has already heard about him from Goena, or perhaps even conducted an interview. Diego, one of the waiters whom I see most days, approaches our table, greets me with a warm ‘Hola, Alec’ and asks what we’d like to order. Zulaika doesn’t look up. Sullenly he says, ‘ Cafe con leche y un vaso de agua,’ and then scratches his ear. You can tell a lot about people by the way they treat waiters.
‘Dos cafes con leche,’ I add, putting an emphasis on the ‘ dos’. Diego asks me how things are and, to create a good impression, I tell him that they’ve rarely been better.
‘And how many times did you speak to Arenaza before your meeting?’ Zulaika talks right over us. ‘Once? Twice?’
‘Just the once. I got his number from Julian’s secretary and called him from my hotel.’
‘And where were you staying?’
‘The Londres y de Inglaterra.’
A pulse of contempt. ‘The big hotel on the Concha?’
‘That’s correct.’
Any number of miserable prejudices flicker behind Zulaika’s eyes. The Londres y de Inglaterra is a bourgeois indulgence, a place of Castilian excess. Only a rich foreigner would stay there, a pijo, a guiri.
‘And did you communicate with him using email at any time?’
Why ask that?
‘No. Just on the phone.’
He writes this down and lights up a cigarette, blowing smoke across the table.
‘Tell me, Alec, how much did you know about Herri Batasuna before you met Mr Arenaza?’
‘Very little. We spoke of the ban on the party and the prospects of a ceasefire in the future. That was the purpose of my visit – to assess the viability of the Basque region for investment.’
‘Why would a person not want to invest in Euskal Herria?’ I had forgotten, of course, that Zulaika writes for a left-wing nationalist newspaper that often carries ETA declarations. To imply any criticism of the Basque region to such a person is tantamount to insult.
‘We actually concluded that people should invest there.’
That shuts him up. Diego comes back and places two coffees and a glass of water on the table. Zulaika nods at him this time, but returns immediately to the list of questions.
‘Could you describe what happened during your meeting?’
His cigarette has been resting in the ashtray, untouched, for about a minute, and is now blowing a curl of
