Blood Red (26 page)
Mark Kravitz came on line instantly when I called him up. ‘Hiya,’ he said, then seemed to peer at me. ‘Is that chocolate on your top lip?’ he asked. There’s a small box on the screen in Skype in which you can see your own image. I checked and it was; I wiped it off, hurriedly.
‘How did your phone call go?’
He smiled. ‘Every bit as well as I expected and more.’
‘Are you going to tell me who you rang?’
The smile stretched; I’d never seen him look so amused. ‘The Home Office. Top floor.’
I saw my image stare at him. ‘Justin Mayfield? The Home Secretary?’
‘That’s the man.’
A year and a half ago, when I’d got into the situation with my cousin, Frank McGowan, to which Mark had alluded earlier, it had led the three of us to cross the path of one of the British government’s rising stars, a friend of Frank. It had also left Mr Kravitz and me in possession of some information that could have turned Mayfield into a black hole overnight and had him banished to the furthest known point of the political universe. We hadn’t used it; Mayfield had been stupid rather than criminal and we didn’t see any point in terminating his career when there was a chance that he might actually be good at the job to which he’d just been appointed. I’d been keeping a distant eye on British politics, and that’s how it seemed to have turned out. Word was that all doors were open to him. ‘You’re not thinking of . . .’
‘Hey,’ he exclaimed. ‘I didn’t threaten him, not at all. I told him that I’d been contacted by a British subject who was being stitched up in a murder investigation on the basis of leaked information and a crime scene investigation that would be a pure fucking joke, if its failings weren’t so serious. He was appalled; then I told him who was on the wrong end of the business. I didn’t have to mention last year; he’d have done something anyway. For you he’ll push it all the way.’
‘What’s he going to do?’
‘He’s done it. He phoned his opposite number in Spain, and got him to agree to a specialist forensic team from Scotland Yard being flown over, “to assist the local investigation” as he put it, by examining the crime scene, and all the other evidence. He called me back fifteen minutes ago, to tell me they’re on the way.’
‘Won’t the crime scenes be compromised by now?’
‘Yes, but not hopelessly. Justin’s established that the house and garden have been under guard since the man’s death was found to be murder, and there’s a new security lock on your storeroom. There’s every prospect of finding something.’
‘But if they don’t, am I not deeper in it?’
‘Justin says no; he’s vouched for you personally with the Spanish, and he says he’s got something else up his sleeve.’
‘Does that mean I can go home now?’
‘No, not yet. He said to give the Scotland Yard people a couple of days. They have three scenes to examine, remember.’
On screen, I saw myself look puzzled. ‘What’s the third?’
‘The car; the Dolores woman didn’t leave it there, or set it on fire. But don’t worry; the Home Secy’s well on your side. Almost the first thing he asked me when I mentioned your name was how you were doing.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I told him that you were festering away as an Earth mother out in Spain, casting around for things to do.’
‘Why did you tell him that?’
‘Because it’s true,’ he declared. ‘You’re bored out of your skull; that’s what I see every time we speak on this device. The voluntary information office you told me about, and showed me a picture of; what’s that other than a desperate attempt to keep yourself busy?’
‘It’s my contribution to the community; that and my involvement with the wine fair that kicked all this business off.’
‘You’d make a better contribution by getting a proper job.’
‘I’ve got one,’ I said stubbornly. ‘I’m an Earth mother, remember.’
‘Sure, and when you’re fifty, and Tom’s an independent young adult, what will you be then?’
‘Happy that he’s independent.’
‘And bored and lonely.’
‘Maybe not lonely,’ I murmured.
He shrugged. ‘Okay, so you find a man, and you move on from being a mother to being a Spanish housewife. That’s not you, Primavera . . . and you know who’d have been the first to tell you so, if he was still around. He’d tell you to go out there and get your life back.’
My vision grew blurred; I blinked to clear it. ‘But the part I want back the most, I can’t have.’
‘So move on; that’s what he’d say, like I’m saying.’
‘Where I live now, he loved it too.’
‘I didn’t say move house. Get a life, Primavera, get a life.’
I scowled at him. He was helping me, but at the same time, he was telling me things I didn’t want to hear, not from anyone else, at any rate. ‘If you come up with any ideas about how I might do that,’ I growled, ‘be sure to pass them on.’
‘I will,’ he said, ‘I will. Call me back on Thursday; hopefully I’ll have good news by then, on all fronts.’
Forty-twoI
was later than I’d anticipated when I got back to Goats’ Hill. I’d meant to use my bono turistica and jump on a bus, but when it came to it I wasn’t sure which route to take, so I grabbed a taxi instead and got him to take me as near as he could.
was later than I’d anticipated when I got back to Goats’ Hill. I’d meant to use my bono turistica and jump on a bus, but when it came to it I wasn’t sure which route to take, so I grabbed a taxi instead and got him to take me as near as he could.
I apologised as soon as I stepped inside, in case Santi had been worried about me, but he hadn’t; and anyway, the bags I was carrying told some sort of a story. He had been shopping himself and had made lunch, a salad consisting of curly pasta . . . it has a name but I can never remember it . . . hard-boiled eggs, quartered, chopped black olives, capers and smoked salmon, all tossed in what looked like Thousand Island dressing, but had a bit more zing to it. I was still digesting churros, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. I sat down and I tucked in.
I was glad that I did; it was fantastic. ‘Do you ever think about doing this for a living?’ I asked him.
He smiled, pleased by the compliment. ‘Maybe, one day, it might be possible. I don’t want to be flying airbuses forever; my airline will let me go on till I’m sixty, but fifty’s my personal retirement date. After that I’ll look at other options.’
‘What about your girlfriend?’ I asked. ‘Is that serious? Might you do something together?’
‘Oh, it’s serious, but where it will go? I can’t see two years ahead with her, far less eleven.’
It was well after three by the time we’d finished eating, and I’d tidied up . . . that consisted of loading everything into the dishwasher . . .
lavavajillas
, in Spanish: lovely word, it means exactly the same thing as the English version, but looks so much nicer. We still had four days to go on the tourist pass, and plenty to see, so when we were ready we walked down into the city, slowly and in the shadows, for it was hot, heading for the cathedral. The heather sellers were out in force again, but I passed them by. My internet sessions with Mark had left me with a warm feeling, one that I didn’t want to put at risk from another round of Romany histrionics.
lavavajillas
, in Spanish: lovely word, it means exactly the same thing as the English version, but looks so much nicer. We still had four days to go on the tourist pass, and plenty to see, so when we were ready we walked down into the city, slowly and in the shadows, for it was hot, heading for the cathedral. The heather sellers were out in force again, but I passed them by. My internet sessions with Mark had left me with a warm feeling, one that I didn’t want to put at risk from another round of Romany histrionics.
Granada’s cathedral isn’t as big as that of its Andalusian neighbour Sevilla . . . that’s the biggest in the world, they say, since St Peter’s in Rome isn’t actually a cathedral . . . but it’s pretty chunky nonetheless, and beautiful inside. Once again, Santi guided me round, explaining the history, and the meaning of each of the nine stained-glass windows. As we sat in the centre of the aisle, beneath the enormous twin banks of organ pipes, the thought occurred that it would be nice to come back with Gerard, to hear his take on it. I fancied he might have been less impressed than his brother. He’d said to me more than once that he felt slightly uncomfortable when he was confronted by the wealth of his church, and in that ornate building there were great riches on open display.
That was it for the day, as far as sightseeing was concerned. I was able to concentrate on the cathedral, but as soon as we were outside my mind headed back home. It was early evening: I wondered how long it would take the London team to reach St Martí.
As it happened, the word got there before the reality. Santi and I were sitting in a pavement bar in Plaza Nueva, contemplating a litre jar of sangria that had just been delivered to our table, trying to guess from our first taste what was in it, apart from ice, when my mobile sounded. ‘Gerard,’ I said as I took the call, ‘say hello to your twin.’
I handed the phone to Santi. They exchanged very few words before he passed it back. ‘Sounds agitated,’ he whispered.
‘What have you done?’ Gerard asked.
‘You might call it direct action,’ I replied. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I’ve just had a visit from Alex. He told me that they’ve all been chucked off the case, him, Gomez, everyone. There’s a team on its way from Barcelona, senior officers, to take over. And he said something else, a story he’d been told by his boss, that some specialists are coming over from London, at the request of Madrid, to re-examine Planas’s house and your storeroom.’
‘Are they indeed?’ I said. ‘Poor Alex; I hope he isn’t too upset.’
‘Very far from it. Given your involvement, he’s relieved to be having no more to do with it. Gomez isn’t though; he sees it as a personal and professional slur.’
‘Maybe if he’d been a bit more professional, it wouldn’t have happened.’
‘Primavera, did you have anything to do with this?’
I chuckled. ‘Gerard, do you think I can make a phone call to Madrid and this sort of thing happens?’
‘My dear, I would put nothing past you. Is this going to work in your favour?’
‘It can’t make it any worse, but yes, I believe it will.’
‘I’ll pray for it.’
I laughed again. ‘You mean you haven’t been?’
‘Of course I have. Morning, noon and night.’
‘Then maybe they’re being answered.’
‘So God’s hand is in this, not yours?’
‘Not unless he’s in a wheelchair.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Never mind. I hope I’ll be able to tell you all about it very soon.’
‘Let’s hope so, and not on a slow boat to Morocco. Don’t tell Santiago, though, not yet; he still needs to be totally innocent of all knowledge of this business.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I promised. ‘I won’t let any harm come to either of you.’
Forty-threeM
ark Kravitz had asked me to sit tight for a couple of days, but I wasn’t sure I could manage that; I was too pumped up, and I was missing Tom too much. I knew one thing, though, knew it for certain. For me even to contemplate disappearing had been a sign of weakness, and I had rediscovered my courage. No way was I running; I was innocent and I was going home, to proclaim it if necessary.
ark Kravitz had asked me to sit tight for a couple of days, but I wasn’t sure I could manage that; I was too pumped up, and I was missing Tom too much. I knew one thing, though, knew it for certain. For me even to contemplate disappearing had been a sign of weakness, and I had rediscovered my courage. No way was I running; I was innocent and I was going home, to proclaim it if necessary.
I thought all this through that evening as night fell and as Santi and I were eating, again, in yet another restaurant that he knew, along the Camino del Sacromonte, a fairly short walk from Goats’ Hill. I did something else too; I sent Tom a text from my illicit mobile. I suppose it was possible that the police might have been able to trace me, if they were monitoring his phone, but since that was a pay and go type too . . . not even I would be crazy enough to give an eight year old a contract phone . . . I doubted that they could. All it said was, ‘Hello son, miss you, love Mum,’ but as soon as I had sent it I felt tons better.
He’d have been in bed by that time, so he must have had it beside him, switched on just in case. The reply came through inside a minute, in what passes these days for English: ‘Miss u 2. Where r u?’
I smiled as I flashed back, ‘Secret mission. C u soon.’
Our main courses arrived as I finished. Santi had insisted that we eat Andalusian, so we had begun with pescadíto frito, a mix of deep-fried fish that’s as far away from a haddock supper as you’re ever going to get, and we were moving on to la tortilla sacromonte. He insisted that we had that because that’s where we were, but he refused to tell me the ingredients. Afterwards, when I bothered to look them up, I was glad that he hadn’t, for it was fantastic, and, modern woman though I am, I would not have gone knowingly for anything that involved lamb’s brains and bull’s testicles. (A guy did call me a ball-breaker once, but I doubt if he meant it literally.)
For once, I wasn’t drinking alcohol; I’d stuck to fizzy water and he was on Cruz Campo beer. We’d had a little white wine for lunch and the afternoon sangria had pushed me up to my self-imposed daily limit. (I’ve never believed all that arbitrary crap about weekly intake that the ‘experts’ feed us. I know what my body can and can’t take, and I make sure that I don’t push it to the edge too often, and hardly ever beyond it.) Apart from that, I had an additional reason to lay off. What had begun as an idea at the back of my mind had turned into a firm intention.
‘What did you think?’ Santi asked, as I finished.
I complimented him on his choice. ‘There have to be Andalusian restaurants in L’Escala,’ I added. ‘We have everything else. I must find one and give it a try.’
‘Gerard will know,’ he said. ‘He’ll also know if it’s any good, just by looking at the menu.’ He gazed at me. ‘You reckon you’ll be back soon, do you?’
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