Blood Red (37 page)

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Authors: Quintin Jardine

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Scotland

BOOK: Blood Red
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‘A nice oldfashioned term, Alex. Ben says that she can make people do things for her, simply because they want to please her. Yes, I suppose you could call that seduction.’
We drove down the autopista in renewed silence for a while after that, each of us with plenty on our minds. We were driving into Barcelona Airport when I remembered favour number two. ‘How did you get on with tracing Justine’s communications?’ I asked.
‘It’s under way,’ he replied. ‘If and when our people come up with something, I’ll hear about it.’ He looked at me, as I drove into the multi-storey car park. ‘Are you going to tell me where we’re going now?’
‘Malaga.’
‘Why the fuck are we going to Malaga?’ he asked, bewildered.
‘You’ll find out when we get there.’
Fifty-five
W
hat he found out was that Malaga wasn’t our ultimate destination. As soon as we emerged from the baggage hall I headed straight for the Hertz counter. (Sure, Avis may try harder, but they still haven’t caught up with Number One.)
We were driving out of the airport when he asked again. ‘Where? Please.’
He was starting to sound pathetic, so I gave him a clue. ‘Remember that big cop you had in your office last week?’
‘Captain Lavorante?’
‘Yes. You might want to give him a call, since we’re going to be on his patch.’
‘Granada? But why?’
‘Because that’s where Justine Michels is headed.’
‘How can you possibly know that?’
‘She left a box of tampons in Gerard’s house, with the stamp of Farmacia Xaloc on them. I found them when I was there, but I didn’t make the connection till last night, when I saw the same name on something I’d bought. We shop in the same place.’
‘Oh dear,’ he sighed, ‘so he and she . . . They really were . . . You must be very disappointed, Primavera.’
I laughed. ‘Men stopped disappointing me a long time ago. They always live down to my expectations.’
‘You’re taking it well.’ He frowned. ‘She’ll have a pretty good start on us,’ he observed.
‘Not much. Angel took her to Girona station; given the time that he did, I reckon she was catching the sleeper from Barcelona. It doesn’t get into Granada until just before nine.’
‘So what do we do when we get there? Go to Gerard’s house and grab her, I suppose. But why the hell’s she going there?’
‘Maybe she isn’t going to the house. Go on, make your call.’
Most people would have used directory inquiries. Alex didn’t; he simply called One One Two, the emergency number, identified himself and asked the operator to connect him with Captain Jorge Lavorante of the Granada Municipal Police. I switched off from the conversation, much of which was in police speak. When it was over, he turned to me and said that Lavorante had suggested that we go to his office.
‘Did you agree?’
‘Yes, but I didn’t say when.’
I had asked for a car with a navigation system. It was telling me that we weren’t all that far from the city, although I could see that for myself, when Alex’s phone rang. He flipped it open. ‘Yes?’
This time I did tune in. ‘Yes? Well done. Only one? Yes, do that please, right now.’ He closed the phone and looked across at me once more. ‘There’s a number, a mobile number, that Justine’s called a lot. It’s a top-up card and we don’t have a clue who’s on the other end. She called it last on Saturday morning, had a call back on Sunday, then yesterday morning she sent a text.’ The phone sounded again as he spoke; he flipped it open. ‘My star at Telefonica can access it; she’s forwarding it to me.’ He pressed a button. ‘And here it is now. “
Torre de la Vela, ten thirty, tomorrow night
.” That’s it; that’s all she says. What the hell does that mean?’
‘It means they’re meeting in the Alhambra tonight; that’s where Torre de la Vela is.’
‘How will they get in? It isn’t open at night.’
‘Who told you that? There’s a guided tour of the place every night, after dark, when it’s floodlit.’
‘So who’s she meeting? It can’t be Gerard; he’s locked up in Barcelona. Do you know?’
‘I suspect she knows we’re on to her, or figures that it’s only a matter of time. This meeting is all to do with her escape plan.’
‘So what do we do in the meantime, once we get to Granada?’
‘First we check into the very nice, very large hotel that I’ve booked us into.’
‘What if Justine’s there as well?’
‘She won’t be. I’m ninety per cent certain that I know where she’ll be staying. Once we’re settled in, I suggest that to avoid any chance of the two of us being spotted, even in a city with a few hundred thousand visitors, we go and spend the day with our friend Lavorante. Oh yes, and we’d better get tickets for the night tour.’
Alex grinned at me. ‘You’re a diamond, Primavera, but you’re flawed, thank God. We don’t need tickets; we’re the police.’
Fifty-six
‘
Y
ou’re looking for a woman.’ Lavorante laughed across his coffee table. ‘You’ve come to the right place, Inspector Guinart. Would you like gypsy, Arab, Chinese, South American, African, or, of course, East European? All available in Granada, and very reasonably priced. Or you could have German, or Scandinavian, or even French; they’re here too, if rather more expensive.’ He looked at me from under the Boris Karloff eyebrows. ‘But not British, senora,’ he added. ‘Not that I know of, anyway.’
‘That’s comforting.’ I took a card from my bag, wrote a name on the back and handed it to him. ‘If you call this place,’ I said, ‘you might find that the one we’re after is registered. She’s none of the above, by the way; she’s Spanish.’
‘Discreet, mind,’ Alex warned.
Lavorante spread his arms wide. ‘Do I look like the unsubtle type?’
He went to the desk, in his surprisingly spacious and elegant office, picked up the phone and made the call. ‘You’re right,’ he grunted as he came back to us. ‘She’s there and she’s in her room.’
‘We could check to see whether she’s bought a ticket for the tour through the hotel,’ Alex suggested.
‘We could,’ I agreed, ‘but we know she’s going there anyway, plus, I suspect that she’ll have bought privately.’
‘So,’ he said checking his watch, ‘we stay here for another five, six hours.’
‘It would be just like the thing for us to go for a coffee and sit at the next table to Justine, suppose she decides to go out for some fresh air. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t either.’
‘You don’t need to lock yourselves in,’ our host told us. ‘I’ll take you somewhere damn few tourists will go, especially a lady on her own. A couple of hours and we’ll head off. Meantime . . . enjoy my city.’ He took a DVD from a pile on the table, stuck it into a player and switched it on. It was an elaborate story of the history of Granada; even I found it fascinating, and I’d already had the unofficial guided tour. It ended with a section on the Alhambra, useful advance information for Alex.
When it was over, Lavorante told us to go with him; we slid into a patrol car and he murmured an instruction in the driver’s ear. He nodded, and headed for the Albacin, then up past the road that leads to Goats’ Hill, and beyond, higher still. ‘Are those caves?’ I asked Lavorante, as we drew to a halt.
‘They sure are,’ he said. ‘Pick us up here at nine,’ he told the driver. ‘These are the caves of Sacromonte, where the gypsies live and where you will see the best flamenco in the world. Come on.’ He led us into what I’d thought was a dwelling; it turned out to be a small theatre, with tables set below a stage. A woman came towards us, dressed in pure Romany style. ‘Big Jorge!’ she bellowed. ‘Good to see you again.’
‘Can we eat?’ he asked.
‘Of course. And drink.’
‘Maybe but not too much. We have something to do later.’
‘What do you want?’ she asked. ‘The tortilla?’
By that time I knew what was in it; I declined, with a show of regretful thanks, and settled for a ridiculous amount of jabugo ham, with tomato bread and hard manchego cheese. We washed it down with a carafe of red wine and then another. Alex and I were abstemious, but it occurred to me that if Big Jorge was having a quiet night, I wouldn’t like to see him on a bender.
And they danced for us; three girls, two men, with three guitarists playing behind them and singing the sort of songs that makes it worth learning Spanish just to understand them.
When Lavorante looked at his watch and nodded to us that it was time, I didn’t want to leave. But I remembered what we were there for. I reached for my money clip in my bag, but the big man shook his head. ‘These people are friends of mine; don’t offend them.’
Outside, night had all but fallen. Our driver was waiting, as ordered. To take us down one hill and then up another, the one on which the Alhambra stands. By the time we got there, it was just short of ten, and buses were starting to arrive at the top of the rise above the entrance. We went straight there; Lavorante badged the guy on the gate and he let us in.
‘Over here,’ the cop said, leading us into the one dark corner of the square, in front of the great ramparts of the Alcazabar, the citadel. Even in the gloom I was afraid that his bulk would give us away, but he seemed to have the gift of making himself smaller, for as the visitors began to arrive, not one of them looked in our direction.
There were more than I’d expected, enough for someone to hide in their midst, if she was worried about being spotted. But she wasn’t.
Alex saw her first, bringing up the rear of a group of about thirty. He nudged me and pointed. Lavorante whistled softly in the darkness. ‘Hey,’ he whispered, ‘a looker and no mistake. What’s she done, this lovely woman?’
‘Murdered her mother and her mother’s lover, after she found out that they killed her father.’
‘In L’Escala? But this is the thing that Gerard did. You heard yourself, he said so.’
‘Now that I think about it very carefully, Jorge, he didn’t say any such thing. All he did was acknowledge the so-called brilliance of Valdes’s theory, and said that he would sign his name to it. Actually, he admitted nothing.’
We waited until the group was inside and followed them, moving slowly, keeping to the shadows in case Justine should glance behind her. We followed the stone path that leads to the courtyard of the citadel, slowly, for the guides were taking their time, but eventually it opened out, into a big rectangular space.
‘Here,’ said Lavorante. We followed him and stood behind a yellow floodlight, against a wall, completely invisible even to someone who was daft enough to stare straight at it. We watched Justine as she slipped into the shadows also, looking about herself, as the parties made their way round, back towards the way they had come, and on to the next stage of the tour. I checked my watch; it was just luminous enough: ten thirty.
She began to move, not worried about concealment any more, stepping out of the shadows and on to the path that led to the great square battlements of the highest point in the city, the watchtower of Granada.
We hung back until she had reached the enclosed stairway that leads to the very top, and vanished from our sight, before we followed, moving quickly along the path, and as silently as we could. Lavorante never made a sound. He led the way up the stairs, I followed and Alex brought up the rear. We were in no hurry, for there’s no other way out.
The soft light flooded the square summit of La Torre de la Vela as we reached the last of the steps. The captain stood aside, to let Alex and me go ahead.
He’d slipped in ahead of her. I’d seen him, but I’d said nothing; it was enough that Alex and Jorge were looking for Justine. They were standing in the corner to our left, against the ramparts with an inadequate, incongruous little rail on top, beyond the bell tower, at least thirty metres away, and maybe more, but we could see them clearly. They were kissing, and I do not mean once on each cheek, Spanish style. His hands were by his side, and her left arm was wound around his neck, her palm on his shoulder. Her right hand, though, was moving up slowly, from his waist. We watched as it stopped, fingers splayed, in the very centre of his chest.
She’d have pushed him then, I know it for sure, over the edge and down to his death, if I hadn’t shouted when I did.
‘Justine!’
She broke away from him and spun round, staring at us as we stepped out from the doorway and into the light.
He looked at us too . . . no, he looked directly at me . . . but in a different way, with a serene resignation that I’d never seen before.
‘Gerard?’ a bemused Alex murmured beside me.
‘Santi!’ I screamed, for I knew what he was going to do.
He smiled at me, the lovely man, then leaned backwards over that useless rail, and disappeared, making not a sound as he plunged into darkness.
Fifty-seven
W
e all stared at Justine, and she stood looking back at us, regaining her composure with every second.
‘Primavera,’ Alex whispered, ‘what . . .’

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