Blood Red (17 page)

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Authors: Quintin Jardine

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Scotland

BOOK: Blood Red
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He frowned. His small talk hadn’t fooled me; I knew there was a specific reason for the visit so I wasn’t surprised when he got round to it. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘your friend, the gentleman we pulled in yesterday morning. During the meeting that you didn’t discuss with us earlier, just how angry was he with Senor Planas?’
‘Very, but it didn’t come to anything.’
‘Not then, but . . . You see, Primavera, the account of his whereabouts is so meticulous that it’s almost as if it was planned in advance. Now, I have this new time frame that’s been suggested. The thing is, I’ve been told very little about this man; I asked the boss when he called me, but he said that it was none of my business. That makes me imagine lots of things. Now I find that Senor Reid has left town, and that makes me imagine even more. I wonder whether there’s any point in continuing with this investigation. From what you know of him, am I right?’
I thought about it, for a while; yes, Matthew could have gone out again, and yes, Planas might still have been up, sinking a bottle in celebration of having his ashes hauled. But against that, there was the inconsistency of the wine consumption, and there was something else. It would have been easy for me to have agreed with Gomez at that point, and there were times afterwards when I wished I’d done just that. But I didn’t; instead I said, ‘I don’t think you are. From the little I know of his background, I’d be very surprised if he’d have needed to hit the guy with a chair. I reckon if he’d killed Planas, it really would have been written off as an accident.’
The intendant cursed, softly. ‘Ah,’ he murmured, ‘what a pity. I really wish this thing would go away. For we’ve just had something else dumped in our laps.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The mayor, Justine Michels, and her sister Elena, Angel Planas’s wife; they’ve just reported their mother missing.’
Twenty-eight
J
ustine’s mobile number was on the business card that she had given me on my second visit to the town hall, two days earlier, to pick up the permission for the wine fair. As I dialled it, I recalled that I’d been greeted in reception by a junior clerk, not by Dolores the Dragon herself.
Business hours were over, but wherever the mayor was there was plenty of background noise. ‘It’s Primavera. Are you able to speak?’ I asked her.
‘Yes. I’m at a gathering of our party group to discuss the agenda for this week’s council meeting, but I haven’t called it to order yet; we’re still waiting for someone to turn up.’ Her voice was strained, not that of the confident politician I’d met before.
‘I’ve just heard about your mother. I had a visit from Gomez; he told me. What’s happened?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘How long’s she been missing?’
‘We don’t know that either. On Sunday, after she heard what had happened, she told me that she felt she should be with Elena. Even though things were as they were between Angel and his father, it had still come as a terrible shock. My sister’s always been a little bit fragile . . . no, that’s the wrong word . . . emotionally susceptible. I told her that was fine with me, and that she could come back to the town hall when she was ready. I thought no more about it. I was very busy on Monday and Tuesday, both days. It was only this afternoon that I got round to calling Elena, to see how she was, and to find out the time of the funeral. I asked her if Mother was still there, and she said, “What are you talking about?” She’d never been near her; she told me she hadn’t seen her since last Friday.’ Spanish people and Catalans always speak faster than Brits . . . I guess that’s why I always have trouble following the in-flight English of Spanish cabin crew . . . and the further she got into her tale, the more Justine went at it rapid fire.
‘Hey,’ I exclaimed, ‘slow down, calm down. When did you see her last?’
‘I told you; on Sunday, when we agreed she should take time off work.’
‘What did you do when you found out she wasn’t where she was supposed to be?’
‘I called her, of course,’ she said impatiently, ‘on her land line and on her mobile. No reply on either; in fact the mobile was switched off. I picked up Elena and we went to the house . . .’
‘So you don’t live with her?’
‘No, I have a town house in Carrer del Mig; my father bought it, restored it and gave it to me. Mother still lives in our original family home, that was my grandparents’, on the top of Puig Pedro. Elena and I went there, but there was no sign of her. Her car wasn’t in the garage, everything inside was neat and tidy. But she’s gone; she’s vanished.’
‘But are you sure she’s missing? Justine, she’s a grown woman and she’s not in her dotage. Doesn’t she ever do things on the spur of the moment?’
‘My mother? No, never. As I told you, she’s old L’Escala, very set in her ways. She’d probably never have been further away than Girona if it wasn’t for my father. He made her go on holidays, took her to Belgium . . .’
Wow
, I thought, but stayed silent.
‘. . . to Paris, to London. She’s hardly been out of town since he died.’
‘How did she take his death? Has she been depressed since then? Do you think she might still be?’
‘She dealt with it better than Elena and I did, to tell you the truth. My dad was a really nice man, a good father and a good husband, but he and my mother probably fell out of love years ago. I don’t remember any great affection between them . . . you know what I mean, as there is between lovers.’
‘What happened to him?’ I asked.
‘He died,’ she replied, curtly. ‘He just died.’
I moved on, quickly. ‘Does she have family?’
‘She has a brother, but I have no cousins. They’re the last of the Fumado tribe around here. He hasn’t seen her, and has no idea where she could have gone.’
‘How about your father’s people? Could she have gone there?’
‘She barely knew them.’
‘I thought you said that you had an uncle, your dad’s brother.’
‘Yes, Georges, but he lives in Brussels. My mother probably met him three times in her life, at her wedding, at Papa’s funeral, and once when Elena and I were kids, when Papa took us to visit him.’
‘So he’s not part of the Belgian community here?’
‘No, and never has been. Believe me, Primavera, Mother will not be with him. Something’s happened to her.’
‘But what makes you so certain?’
‘I’ve checked with her hairdresser; she goes every morning, Monday to Friday, to have her hair arranged as you saw it when you met her; not Saturday, because it’s too busy, or Sunday because it’s closed, but every other day of the week, every other day of her life. My mother has her vanities, and her hair is the greatest of them. She hasn’t been seen there since last Friday morning, and that tells me for certain that something is wrong.’ She paused. ‘That and one more thing: her make-up bag is missing. Wherever she goes, it goes.’
‘I see.’ A mystery indeed, I conceded; no wonder Gomez had been a little stressed. ‘What did the police say when you and your sister went to see them?’
‘Their first reaction was much the same as yours. The sergeant we spoke to said that she’s neither a child nor an ancient, and that people have a perfect right to go off on trips without telling their families. I told her to go and fetch someone senior, and our friend the intendant appeared. Eventually he took me seriously. As for having any theories, that’s another matter.’
‘Yes, he was pretty perplexed when he spoke to me. Did he update you on his investigation?’
She whistled. ‘He did indeed. So the old pig had been entertaining a lady. Gomez did say that they had a suspect, but I got the impression, although I’m not sure why, that they’re not moving heaven and earth to catch them. If that’s true, then good; it’ll give them more time to find my mother.’ I heard a voice in the background, calling her name. ‘At last,’ she replied. ‘Primavera, our latecomer has arrived, I have to go.’
Afterwards, when I thought about it, I found myself coming back to one thing that the mayor had said. ‘
I don’t remember any great affection between them . . . you know what I mean, as there is between lovers
.’
Yes, I know what she meant; it’s something I’ve longed for myself, from time to time. There had been a sadness in Justine’s voice; she had known such tenderness herself, but I found myself wondering whether, for all she had said of her mystery man, she still did.
Twenty-nine
G
erard didn’t turn up for supper that night. I wondered if he might be waiting for me to call him to tell him it was okay, but I wasn’t about to do that. So Tom, Mac and I had another pleasant family evening, even if for much of it I did find myself hoping that the gate buzzer would ring, and it would be him, apologising for being late.
I had misgivings about going to the funeral of José-Luis Planas next morning, but in the end I kept my promise to his son. Maybe, since I had seen him in his final undignified pose, I felt the need to obliterate that as my last memory of a man I had known only briefly, or maybe I was just one of those cynics that Angel had said would be there only to make sure that he really was dead. Or maybe there was a deeper reason. The last funeral I had attended was that of my mother, five years before. When Oz died I was on another continent, and for various reasons I couldn’t make it back for his. So I suppose it’s possible that as I stood near the centre of the substantial congregation, I was looking at one coffin while my subconscious was seeing another.
Gerard was there of course, assisting Father Olivares. I made eye contact with him at one point, but didn’t get as much as a flicker of recognition in return.
Oh dear
, I thought,
I’ve really burned some boats with him
.
Justine was there too, but not beside her sister; instead she was seated on the other side of the aisle in the centre of a group of twelve, the remaining members of the council either paying their respects or giving thanks for the political stability that the death had brought. She wore a simple black lace shawl over her head. (No, not a mantilla. That’s held up by a comb.) It made me all the more aware of the lack of mine. I’d looked for it all over the house, but been unable to find it.
The requiem Mass dragged on, and on, as they do, before the old priest pronounced the benediction, shook hands with Angel and Elena, then stood to one side as the coffin was carried out to the waiting hearse with the couple following behind. Angel looked grave, his face pale, but his wife was hollow cheeked and her eyes were hidden behind wrap-around sunglasses.
As I filed out with the rest of the crowd, I saw that Angel was standing beside his limo; the door was open and Elena was inside, pressed into a corner, as far from the throng as she could force herself. I made my way towards him.
I held out a hand, formally. ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmured; I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘Thank you,’ he responded. He seemed strange, friendly enough, but slightly distant; not unnatural, I supposed, for a man who was burying his father.
‘Has there been any news of Elena’s mother?’ I asked, although her absence was a pretty fair indicator that there had been nothing positive.
He shook his head. ‘No. Nor do there seem to have been any new developments in the investigation into my father’s murder. The Mossos have not been at their most impressive,’ he added bitterly. ‘Justine has instructed them to inform her of everything they have, but all they can give her are suspicions that I for one cannot credit.’
That puzzled me. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Nothing you need worry about. I shouldn’t have said anything at all.’ He broke off as the undertaker approached, to tell him that they were ready to go, then turned back to me. ‘Listen, we are having a small reception in the terrace restaurant of Meson del Conde this evening, for my father’s council colleagues and for those people in the town who knew him best. It’s at seven; please join us.’ He slid into the big black car beside his wife, and closed the door before I had a chance to tell him that I was cooking for Mac and Tom that evening.
Thirty
‘
O
f course it’s all right with me, woman,’ Mac exclaimed. ‘D’you think I’ve never made the tea before? You go to this wake, or whatever the hell it is, and I’ll allow my grandson to crush me at the video game of his choice.’
‘If you’re sure,’ I told him. ‘If I don’t go now that I’ve been invited, it’ll look as if I’m snubbing them. It’s not that I’m looking forward to it . . . it’ll be weird . . . but Angel needs support.’
With the go-ahead given, I decided that I’d better dress up for the occasion. I showered, shampooed, and gave myself a good going over with the Gillette Venus (confession: I’ve taken to shaving it all off in the summer; it’s cooler) before coating myself in a very expensive moisturiser that my sister recommended to me, and coaxing my hair into its most sophisticated presentation, rather than its quick and easy format. When all that was done I chose a light, below-the-knee, plum-coloured satin dress with a halter neck, and matching shoes. And that was all; yes, I often go commando, but I never tell anyone. My shawl would have set it off perfectly; I had another look around for it, but still couldn’t find the damn thing, so I settled for the shoulder bag in the same material, that I’d bought with the dress.

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