Blood Red (15 page)
‘That’s our thinking,’ Alex agreed.
‘. . . she picked up a rock, or something similar . . . maybe she had a cosh in her bag . . . and hit him with it. She probably didn’t mean to kill him, but when she realised she had, she did some quick thinking, dragged him to the wall and tossed him over to make it look like a fall. And after doing that, and getting rid of the second wine glass, she hung around? I don’t think so.’
‘I don’t think so either. You have quite an imagination, Primavera; you see it much as we do. In fact the crime scene team found traces of blood on the grass, near the patio, and then again, in several other places, leading towards the wall. But you got the weapon wrong. Perez found something else that our man had missed: fine traces of wood and paint embedded in Planas’s skull, where it was crushed. She says that there was only one blow, and that death was probably instantaneous. We’re going back to the scene tomorrow, early, to see if we can find a match.’
‘Whatever he was hit with, it did the job. Tell me, was there any money in his wallet? I assume that he had one.’
‘Oh yes, he did, and there was four hundred and eight euro in it. He always paid his bills in cash, at Hostal Miryam and everywhere else. He didn’t have any credit cards; no plastic at all.’
‘Doesn’t that argue against the prostitute theory?’ I wondered, aloud.
‘Not necessarily. If she was smart enough to fake the accident scenario, she’d have known that robbing him would have blown it. Besides, for all we know he could have had a thousand on him originally.’
‘True,’ I conceded. ‘In any event, your lady killer is probably long gone from Spain by now.’
‘I fear you may be right,’ he conceded. ‘But that isn’t going to stop us looking for her.’
Twenty-fourM
ac was waiting in the garden when I returned; the evening had cooled and he had put on a sweater. ‘What would you like?’ I asked him, as I led the way inside, and sent him up to the first-floor terrace, overlooking the square.
ac was waiting in the garden when I returned; the evening had cooled and he had put on a sweater. ‘What would you like?’ I asked him, as I led the way inside, and sent him up to the first-floor terrace, overlooking the square.
‘A beer will do.’
I fetched a couple of bottles of Coronita from the fridge (they call it Corona in Mexico, where it’s made, and just about everywhere else on the planet; it’s my ‘house’ beer), stuck a wedge of lime in the neck of each and carried them upstairs. Grandpa Blackstone had settled himself into one of the chairs and was gazing down at the rapidly clearing cafés.
‘You’re doing a great job, Primavera,’ he said, as I handed him his nightcap.
‘Uh?’ I grunted, as I lit a mozzy candle.
‘With Tom.’
‘He’s due most of the credit.’
‘Some of it, but you’re setting the example, you’re doing the raising. He’s turning into a fine boy.’ He smiled. ‘I had a look at his teeth once he’d brushed them. He’s got the same kink in his lower incisors that his father had, and his aunt still does. You could have it straightened by an orthodontist, indeed if you were American it would be automatic, but it’s a very small imperfection. I never bothered with Oz or Ellie. It won’t stop him having a killer smile when all his adult set are through.’
‘That’ll be good,’ I murmured, ‘as long as he smiles with his eyes at the same time.’
A frown seemed to settle on Mac’s face in the candlelight. ‘Are you saying that my son didn’t?’
‘He did when I first met him. I’ll die thinking of the first time he smiled at me. Latterly, though, it wasn’t always the case.’
‘What changed him, d’ you think?’
I sighed. ‘Me probably.’
‘Nah. You set him on the road to doing things he’d never dreamed of.’
‘And came between him and Jan.’
‘Sometimes monogamy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’
I had no response to that, and he wasn’t about to elaborate, and so we sat in silence for a while, until he reached across and tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Hey,’ he began, and the grin was back, ‘what about this Gerard then?’
‘What about him?’
‘Tom seems to like him.’
‘Tom’s one of his altar servers.’
‘You’re okay with that?’
‘Absolutely. If you’re looking for a role model for the son of a single mum, who better?’
‘And for the single mother herself?’
I chuckled. ‘Mac, think of him as the bloke next door, because that’s what he is. You’ve been single, you know how these things really are.’
‘Hah! Bad example, lass. In my case, Mary and I were creeping in and out of each other’s houses late at night, until we went legit.’
‘Well, there’s no creeping done here!’
He nodded. ‘Just as well.’ He pointed with his beer bottle, down the square. Alex and Gloria had just left their table and he was steering Marte’s buggy round the corner. ‘That was a long conversation,’ he remarked.
At times, Mac can be as subtle as a flying mallet, but I know that his curiosity isn’t that of the prurient, but that of someone who really cares about me, almost as much as my own father does.
‘See you,’ I said, smiling. ‘His name is Alex, his wife’s called Gloria and I’m the baby’s godmother, unlikely as that may seem. He’s a cop, and he was giving me the lowdown on a case that is currently the talk of the steamie in this part of the world.’
‘What happened? Has somebody been nicking the lead off the church roof?’
‘No, someone’s drawn a line under a prominent citizen. Alex is one of the investigators.’
‘Jesus, homicide?’
I nodded.
‘In a place like this?’
‘We’re not immune. I didn’t mention it earlier, because Tom was around.’
I gave him a full rundown on the events leading up to Planas’s death, and on what had happened afterwards.
‘They thought Matthew did it?’ he gasped.
‘Let’s just say that they entertained the possibility.’
‘Ridiculous. The big fella’s harmless. Plus, on the golf course he couldna’ hit a cow on the arse with a shovel, so I doubt if he’s capable of clubbing anyone over the head, unless the bloke stood very still and told him what to do. What about his stepson, this Ben lad? Surely he had a down on the dead man?’
‘Ben’s problems with him were over by that time, and he never knew about the money. Besides, he told me that Alex had been to see him and asked him where he was. Seems that he wasn’t alone; he isn’t saying who he was with, not to me, anyway, but he’s not in the frame. As for Matthew, he can prove where he was at the time as well.’
‘So the theory is that this righteous pillar of the community bought himself some nookie and then got hit over the head?’
‘That’s the current police thinking, yes.’
He looked at me. ‘Do I get the impression you don’t share their conviction?’
I frowned back at him. ‘It seemed obvious at first, but . . . When I think about it, and I try to imagine the situation, like an old guy calling a discreet number on his mobile as if it’s for a home delivery pizza: I can picture it, sure . . . but not with that particular old guy. When he and I had our set-to in his office and he called me a whore, there was real contempt in his voice when he said the word. He spat it out; the old bastard spat it all over me, in fact. He was saying that in his eyes a
puta
is the lowest of the low. So you see, I’m not sure I can see him soiling himself with one. I have a feeling that Alex and his boss can spend all day tomorrow checking the brothels between here and Figueras, or between here and Madrid for that matter, and they’re going to come up empty handed.’
Twenty-fiveputa
is the lowest of the low. So you see, I’m not sure I can see him soiling himself with one. I have a feeling that Alex and his boss can spend all day tomorrow checking the brothels between here and Figueras, or between here and Madrid for that matter, and they’re going to come up empty handed.’
I
tried to forget about it. Really, I did. But it wouldn’t go away. The vision of that odious man and his midnight assignation kept forcing itself between me and everything else I tried to do. And I had plenty on my plate next day, with our guest to look after. Tom dropped a hint about pulling a sickie from school, but I wasn’t having any of that. The year end was approaching and that’s a big time for the kids at every level, so I dug my heels in.
Once he had set off on his bike . . . with a promise from his grandpa that the two of them would go shopping for a new one at the weekend . . . I took Mac, and Charlie, for a stroll around the village, so that Mac could see it properly, before the holidaymakers and day trippers started to flock in. Yes, he’d been before, but there’s always something you miss. For example there’s the ruined building between the church and Esculapi; he’d never noticed that before. It has nothing resembling a roof, and it’s overgrown, but lots of the outer walls are still there.
‘Who owns it?’ he asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ I confessed. ‘But somebody does, and if he ever gets the money together to rebuild it as it should be, then it’ll complete the square.’
There are two or three spots like that left in St Martí, ruins with potential, you might say, and worth a bomb, even in their derelict state. I won’t tell you how much I paid for our house, but it’s appreciated mightily in value in the time we’ve owned it, and since it’s very rare for an ‘outsider’ to be able to buy property within the village walls, it’s not going to be affected by any credit crunch.
As we walked along Carrer del Pou towards Plaça Petita, Charlie ran on ahead, sniffing his mates, I guessed, and sure enough when we turned the corner there was Ben, in the process of opening his wine shop, despite the distractions of Cher and Mustard. As soon as I introduced them, Ben sparked. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘you know my stepfather, I believe.’
‘That’s right,’ Mac confirmed. ‘Does he know I’m here?’ he asked.
‘Not as far as I know. Why don’t you call in on them? He’ll be pleased to see you. Give him a call first mind; my mum doesn’t like being caught unawares.’ He scribbled an address and phone number on a scrap of paper from a pile on the shop counter. ‘There you are. You know where it is, Primavera. It’s just down the hill from Shirley Gash’s house.’
‘Thanks, I’ll do that. If he’s got over being picked up by the fuzz.’
‘He has now. I spoke to Mum half an hour ago. She told me that he had a phone call this morning from the head of the force, the Director General himself, in person, apologising for . . .’ He paused. ‘How did he put it? . . . The embarrassment to which he was subjected.’ He grinned. ‘I suppose it’s good to know that the good old British Consul still has some clout these days.’
I winced, even though I tried not to show it, as I wondered how much of that clout had made its way down the line, and round the ear of Intendant Gomez and my friend Alex.
Ben and I chatted for a few minutes about the fair, while Mac explored the stock displayed in stacked-up cubes. I told him that I’d sourced all the tables we were going to need, and the parasols. My next priority, I promised him, would be to go round our identified advance sales outlets, signing them up for the project. ‘Justine’s promised me that the tourist offices will stock them, and the town hall itself. I’ll hit the hotels as soon as I can.’
‘You’re still confident we’ll get advance sales?’ He still had his doubts, clearly.
‘Trust me. It’s a certainty.’ I was keeping my secret weapon to myself. Eventually I’d let him in on it, but I didn’t want to go public too early.
Mac chose a couple of bottles, one red, one white, for dinner, he said; and an ecological cava, even though he had trouble working out why the maker had chosen to market a ‘green’ wine in a blue bottle. As we left the shop and climbed towards the square I saw that one of the church doors was open. It was possible that a florist was in there, setting up for a wedding, but I wasn’t surprised when Gerard stepped out into the daylight. He must have seen us coming from inside.
He wasn’t wearing his priest gear and as he approached us I saw that he had a day-old stubble on his chin. I’m sure Mac assumed that he was the handyman.
‘How goes?’ he said, in Catalan.
‘Fine,’ I replied, in the same language. ‘This is my former father-in-law, Mac Blackstone. He’s been dying to meet you; Tom’s told him all about you.’
‘Sir,’ he exclaimed, in English. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
‘Likewise,’ said Mac, giving him that peculiar angled look he affects when he’s greeting someone for the first time; it’s as if he’s trying to size up their teeth, ‘even if you are trying to lure my grandson into the Catholic faith.’
‘Which you don’t share?’ Gerard’s expression grew cautious as he looked at the unknown quantity before him.
‘Afraid not; the Church of Scotland may not be much of an outfit these days, but it’s the only one I’ve got.’ He grinned. ‘I wouldn’t force it on anyone else, though; I never did with my own kids.’
‘And I won’t try to persuade Tom,’ Gerard promised. ‘I’m pleased to have him help me with no conditions attached.’
Mac turned to me. ‘And how about you, Primavera? You got any preconditions?’
Mischievous old bastard
, I thought, but I put on my most gauche expression and replied, ‘Me? None at all. My boy will find his own way through life; that’s the way it should be.’
, I thought, but I put on my most gauche expression and replied, ‘Me? None at all. My boy will find his own way through life; that’s the way it should be.’
‘Indeed. Since I got here,’ he checked his watch, ‘what, less than eighteen hours ago, he’s talked about being an actor like his dad, a manager like his mum, a weatherman like his uncle, a golfer like his cousin Jonny, and a dentist like me. He’s an impressionable lad, so what if he decides that what he most wants in life is to become a priest, like his friend Gerard? How would you feel about that?’
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