Authors: Quintin Jardine

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Scotland

Blood Red (11 page)

BOOK: Blood Red

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After all, Gerard had dropped me off not long after midnight, at the very start of the four-hour period during which, the pathologist said, the guy had been killed. Ben Simmers had gone home as soon as I’d got back, leaving me alone with Tom, who was sound asleep. There was nobody to say that I hadn’t crept out again, gone to Planas’s place, talked myself past the entry system, had a glass of wine with the old shit, then bashed his head in. But, I asked myself, why would I have done that? The devil’s advocate in me replied: the police could argue that I was saving myself twelve thousand euro. I might counter that, by my standards, that amount isn’t worth the risk, even if I was the homicidal type, but . . . my father has a saying: ‘There are two sorts of money. There is money, and there is
my
money, and one’s attitude to each is completely different.’ Christ, I had some sort of a motive, I had no alibi, and it was pretty much certain that they would find my DNA at the scene, somewhere. The problem with that was, given all those other factors . . . I couldn’t think of a way of proving that I’d only been there once.

The way things stood, the only person in the world who knew for sure that I hadn’t killed the guy was me. I won’t say I was scared, but I felt a few butterflies. I called Gerard, for the comfort of hearing his voice as much as anything else, and told him about the change in the situation. I was surprised by the fact that he wasn’t.

‘Father Olivares grew up in L’Escala and he’s known Planas since they were boys. He told me that he came from a long-lived family,’ he explained. ‘His father and his father before him, they both lasted into their nineties. As I understand it, José-Luis was only sixty-eight, and still danced a lively sardana with his cronies. When I told my colleague how he’d been found, he thought about it for a while then asked, “Did he fall or was he pushed?” Now we know, it seems.’ He paused. ‘This has upset you, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes, it has. I met the man, and hours later he was dead.’

‘Then the police turn up on your doorstep.’ He’s a mind-reader.

‘Yes!’ I said, a little too loudly.

He laughed, gently. ‘Primavera, don’t be silly. This is a man who’s spent his life upsetting people.’

I thought of Angel’s comment. ‘His son did say,’ I admitted, ‘that half the people at the funeral will be there to make sure he really is dead.’

‘Exactly. Don’t get yourself into a lather. If you want to safeguard your position, you could always hire a lawyer . . .’

‘Gomez might read something into that. No, I won’t be doing that unless it’s necessary.’

‘In that case, just relax. If they come back to you, let me know, otherwise . . .’

‘Will do,’ I promised. ‘Here, are you doing anything on Wednesday evening?’

‘Not that I know of at this moment. In my calling it’s always possible that something may arise, but as it stands I’m clear.’

‘Then would you like to come to my place, for supper? It’ll be above suspicion: Tom’s grandfather, Oz’s dad, is coming to stay. You’ve never met him, but I’m sure you’ll get on.’

‘Fine, thanks. Is he Catholic?’

‘No, he’s the same as me. Baptised Protestant, but broad-minded. You’ve got something else in common though. You both see people at their most vulnerable and afraid. He’s a dentist, or was, until he retired a few years back.’

He was laughing as he hung up. Gerard’s laugh is soft, deep and musical, not the braying kind that always strikes me as affected.

I had worked myself out of household tasks, and so I went outside and replaced the multilingual ‘Closed’ sign on the information booth with the one that reads ‘Ring for attention’. Four people did: two British, one French, one German, with a variety of questions. I answered them all, sold two tickets for the cruise boat, and sent the German on his way with a map of the cycle routes across Emporda.

I was in the garden, reading
Fatal Last Words
, the latest Skinner novel . . . I’m a big fan . . . and waiting for Tom to get back from school, when the bell sounded again. I opened the door, stepped into the booth, and saw Alex Guinart standing on the other side of the wall. He was smiling, and I took that as a good sign.

‘How can I help you, sir?’ I asked. ‘Tickets for the
carrilet
? A list of concerts in the church this summer? Contact numbers for local taxi services?’

‘They’re all on the noticeboard in our office. I’ve just had some good news, and I thought I’d share it with you. Hector Gomez couldn’t say anything to me until he had confirmation from our HQ in Barcelona; he had the call half an hour ago, and I’m now officially an inspector. It means a transfer to Girona, to join his team: as his number two, in fact.’

I was dead chuffed for him. ‘Alex, congratulations.’

‘Yes, thanks. I’m pleased too, and so’s Gloria, although it’ll mean less-regular hours.’

‘What about Garcia? Will you be working with him too?’

‘No. He’s been transferred to Tortosa.’

That was a new one on me. ‘Where’s that?’ I asked.

Alex grinned. ‘It’s as far away from here as you can get without leaving Catalunya.’

I winced. ‘You’d better behave yourself with Gomez.’

‘Garcia had it coming. He isn’t a good man. Hector made a point of never leaving him alone with a prisoner. I think he was biding his time; that nonsense with the piece of plastic gave him the chance to get rid of him. The guy was all ready to accuse Father Hernanz, after he heard about your argument with Planas, and since he knows that the two of you are . . .’ He hesitated, as if he was taking care to choose the right word.

‘Friends, Alex,’ I told him, ‘we’re friends. Just as you and I are friends.’

He shook his head. ‘No, Primavera; not as we are. Don’t be so naive. You are a trusted friend of my family, and you stood for my daughter in church, beside Gloria and me. Gerard’s a priest, a modern priest, I’ll grant you, but he can’t have a public friendship with an attractive single woman, who’s around his own age, without tongues starting to wag.’

‘Thanks for the compliment, but it’s a private friendship,’ I protested. ‘There is nothing in the vows or even in the practice of his church that says that a priest can’t have a private life. Our view is that we’d be wrong to keep our friendship a secret. Even old Olivares agrees with that, for he and Gerard had it out. Bottom line, we are friends, we are not intimate. We don’t kiss, we don’t cuddle, we don’t fuck, all right?’

‘Hey,’ he laughed, ‘don’t get on my case. I know that, but people tend to apply their own values to others. When it comes to the likes of a guy like Garcia, it’s fuel to him. He and Gerard have butted heads before too, and neither of them’s the type to back down.’

‘Are you saying I should just see him in church and leave it at that?’

Alex looked down, and shook his head. ‘No. Like I said, you’re a trusted friend. You know what’s right and what’s not. It’s for Gerard to square the extent of your friendship with his duty as a priest, and to deal with the critics. But don’t be too surprised if he also winds up in Tortosa one day, or in some other place far away. Father Olivares will be retiring soon. Even though he likes Gerard, when the bishop and the monsignor consider his replacement, your name might come up in the discussion.’

I hadn’t thought that far ahead; if Gerard had, then it seemed that he’d made some sort of a decision. ‘Fucking politicians,’ I growled. ‘They’re more trouble than they’re worth, wherever they are.’

‘So it seems, in Planas’s case, although it took a long time for someone to do something about it.’

‘When does your expert get to work?’

‘Tomorrow morning. Our first pathologist was right, I’m sure, but we have to report to the public prosecutor’s office, so we need her confirmation of that. Meanwhile, the CSI people are doing the painstaking stuff along at the house.’

‘Any suspects?’ I asked, casually.

He grinned. ‘Apart from you, you mean?’

‘Stop it.’

‘There’s no chain of evidence so far. We have nothing to follow. All we can do is wait, to see what tomorrow may bring.’

Nineteen

L
ife is like a round of golf. If you drop a shot at one hole, you do your damnedest to get it back at the next, and it gives you real momentum when you do. So it is with days.

The sun woke me next morning, rising beautifully out of the sea and into a cloudless sky. You can’t beat perfection. My moody Monday was a distant memory, and I could see a terrific Tuesday ahead.

Tom was in an upbeat mood too; I’d told him the night before that I’d be picking him up at five o’clock (a long day for the kids, but with long summer holidays as a compensation) and taking him on an errand. He’d quizzed me, but ‘mystery tour’ was all I would say. He was up by seven thirty and wanted to go for a swim before school, so we all did, he and I, and Charlie. You’re not really supposed to take dogs on the beaches in the summer, unless they’re designated, but at that time of the morning you can get away with it. Anyway, Charlie’s good; he knows not to dump on the sand.

Once we’d finished breakfast I drove Tom to L’Escala, leaving Charlie in his garden kingdom, and parked outside the town’s leisure complex. I watched Tom walk the last hundred metres or so, then took my gym bag inside. I was restless, and I knew why. I’ve always coped with my recent state well enough, but I’m a woman in my prime, and from time to time I get horny. So it was that morning. When you’re celibate, and you get that way . . . well, I find that the best thing to do is to put on a pair of trainers and run like hell. I flashed my membership card at the entrance, changed, and went up to the fitness suite. It was busy, but there was a treadmill free. I switched it on, starting at a modest ten kilometres per hour, winding it up to twelve once I was warmed up. One of the nice things about our town gym is that there are no mirrors; people go there to exercise, not to admire their six-packs. Instead of looking at yourself sweating, as you pound out the distance, there’s nice views of the pool below and of the clay tennis courts outside. That morning I saw only one swimmer, but the three courts were all in use, even though the sun had only reached one of them.

I’d done six kilometres of the ten I’d set for myself, when I was aware of a figure climbing on to the static bike next to me. ‘Good morning, Senora Primavera,’ said the newcomer. I glanced to the side and saw Angel Planas.

I was running smoothly; I can go faster than the pace I’d chosen, so I had the breath to reply. ‘And to you,’ I replied. He had spoken Spanish, as we had in our previous encounters, but I chose to reply in Catalan. ‘I haven’t seen you here before.’

He switched languages. ‘Normally, I come during my afternoon break, but I’ve closed the shop until after the funeral.’

‘As a mark of respect?’

‘Of course. It wouldn’t have been seemly to do otherwise. Besides, my father may have been at odds with me, but . . .’

‘He was still your dad. I understand. Has Gomez given you any indication about the funeral?’

He set himself a programme, and started to pedal slowly. ‘He’s told me that after the examination this morning, he will ask the public prosecutor for authority to release the body. Unless something unexpected comes up, that will happen tomorrow, so it will be on Thursday morning.’

‘Doesn’t give you much time to let people know.’

‘We have a very good informal system for spreading the word. We put the details on notices in shop windows and on lamp posts, all through the old town. It works.’

‘What about the other parts of L’Escala?’

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a smile on his face. ‘To my father, the modern areas barely existed.’

He set to pedalling, and I cranked up my speed a little, putting further discourse beyond either of us. I finished my programme with a sprint, then wound down for a couple of minutes, before stepping off the treadmill. As my heart rate settled back to normal I did some stretching exercises, until finally I reckoned I had burned off most of my raging hormones. I waved goodbye to Angel and went back to the changing room.

By the time I made it back to L’Escala, looking presentable and fit for the day . . . I tend to use very little make-up, just Garnier sun cream as a base and a little lippie, and keep my hair shortish and spiky, the straight from the shower look . . . I had worked off breakfast and was fairly hungry. It was still well shy of eleven, but Meson del Conde’s tables were out and ready for the day, so Charlie and I sat down and I asked Cisco for a cortado . . . a café solo with milk . . . a bottle of Vichy Catalan, a croissant and a dish of water for the dog.

I had just killed the coffee and was tucking into the crab-like roll when Ben Simmers came into the square, looking neither right nor left but heading straight for my house, his distinctive gait so brisk that it was almost a trot.

‘Hey!’ I called to him, between bites. ‘If you’re looking for me, try here.’

He spun round, saw me and came across to my table.

‘Want a coffee?’ I asked.

‘No, no time.’

He seemed more than a little agitated. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘quit acting like the white fucking rabbit and tell me what’s up.’

BOOK: Blood Red

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