Blood Red (27 page)

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Authors: Quintin Jardine

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Scotland

BOOK: Blood Red
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‘I can’t hang around here forever,’ I told him. ‘Neither can you, for that matter. When do you have to be back?’
‘I have a flight out of Madrid Barajas to LAX on Friday,’ he admitted. ‘That means I have to leave Thursday at the latest.’
‘Do you have a flight home booked?’
He smiled. ‘Don’t have to do that. I can turn up at Lorca Airport and get on any flight. If it’s full, I’ll use a crew seat.’
There was nothing in what he said or how he looked, but I had a feeling that he’d rather be back home sooner than later. I said nothing to him, but right then, my mind was made up.
I didn’t have coffee; I was tired from my hectic day and didn’t want anything to get in the way of a good night’s sleep. I went to bed as soon as I got in, after I’d explored the menu of my temporary phone and found out how to set its alarm. It trembled on the bedside table at seven sharp, but I was up by then. I don’t know about you, but every time I set an alarm I’m always awake before it rings. I’d refreshed my dye job before we went out to Sacromonte, so all I needed was a quick shower, brush of teeth, and I was ready. I packed my bags, more carefully than I had a few days before, and climbed the stairs. If Santi had been there, I’d have said a proper ‘So long and thanks for everything’, but there was neither sight nor sound of him, so I took the notepad on the kitchen work surface and scribbled him a note that said much the same thing.
I suppose I should have asked him if it would be all right for me to take the Suzuki . . . bearing in mind that it was his, and not Gerard’s . . . but that didn’t occur to me until I was well on the road, until long after I’d reversed back down Goats’ Hill until I had room to turn, then driven carefully out of the Albacin and out of the city of Granada.
I hadn’t told Santi, but I was going home. I wasn’t pissing about on N roads and C roads either. I didn’t have a map, since the one that Gerard had given me had only covered his route, but I knew that Autopista Seven runs all the way up the coast and that it was probably going to be the shortest route and certainly the quickest, so that’s where I headed with my chestnut hair and my wrap-around sunglasses, looking for Murcia as a first step.
The little Suzuki wasn’t made for motorway driving. In addition, it was very hot and its ancient air-conditioning system had its limitations, so I had to make quite a few stops to let both the car and me cool down. I’d never intended to make it back in one day; I’d hoped I might have got as far as Barcelona, but reality kicked in and in the end I was happy to settle for reaching as far north as Valencia. (I had considered Benidorm as a possible stopping-off point, but not for any more than a couple of seconds.)
I came off the motorway and made my way into the city centre looking for somewhere to spend the night. Eventually I settled on the Hotel Villareal, three star with a handy car park. If they’d insisted on ID I’d have turned and walked out, but I told the receptionist that I’d left my passport in the car, and when I paid cash in advance, any worries she might have had faded away.
The hotel didn’t have a formal restaurant, but I wanted to go out anyway. These days there are two things in the world that you can find simply by turning a corner in any city. One is a Starbucks and the other is a sign advertising internet access. I had to walk a little further than usual, but still I came up lucky in Valencia; I found both in the same place, and it was quiet. I bought myself a tall filter, Colombian, with a little milk, and chose one of the four unused computers, pleased to see that it too had a camera and a headset, undoubtedly so that little Annabelle from Anywhere, Indiana, could let her mom back home see that she was safe in Valencia, Spain.
I booted up and Skyped Mark Kravitz. He wasn’t in the wheelchair, but in a leather swivel, so I guessed that he must be having a good day with the MS, or as good as they’ve become for him. ‘Where are you now?’ he asked.
I told him.
‘I said to give it a couple of days,’ he reminded me.
‘I know, but I thought I might as well spend them travelling. Have you heard any more from our well-placed friend?’
He nodded. ‘Two things. The first is that the Scotland Yard people have found several more DNA traces on the sites they’re examining, and preliminary tests show that one in particular is common to all three. Good news? It’s not yours. Bad news? Well, not all that bad, but it doesn’t rule you out completely. They could suggest that you had an accomplice. However, if they do, they’ll run into a problem. The second message I’ve had from our friend is that he’s pulled a string or two in the Foreign Office. They’ve been getting grief from the Scottish Nationalist government in Edinburgh because there’s nobody in our embassy set-up with responsibility for looking after Scottish interests in Spain, and in Catalunya in particular. So a special counsellor has just been appointed.’
In my own wee box on screen, I saw my mouth open. ‘Are you going to tell me who it is?’ I asked.
‘Do I need to? It’s you.’
‘Can he do that? Without my agreement?’
‘Are you going to refuse?’
‘What do I gain from it, apart from a job I never asked for?’
‘Diplomatic immunity, Primavera. It means that you’re untouchable by the Spanish police without the consent of our government.’
‘So I’m an honorary consul or some such?’
‘No. They only have limited immunity. Your appointment makes you a diplomatic agent; suppose you as much as parked your car in the wrong place and it got towed, they’d have to bring it back.’
‘How long will it last?’
‘Until you resign, or they fire you for incompetence. It’s a real job. I told you yesterday that you should get a life. Well, this is it.’
‘But what do I do?’
‘That’s to be defined by the Foreign Office, after the Scottish First Minister’s put his two groats’ worth in. But broadly, you’ll represent Scotland in Spain. They’re not talking full-time, not yet; two days a week, salary pro rata.’
‘But it’s a scam.’
‘No it’s not. How often do I have to say it? It’s for real. Yes, there is a potential downside: if the Spanish authorities insist on charging you with murder, you’ll still be tried. But in London, not in Spain, under the British system. The Crown Prosecution Service would need to be satisfied that there’s a case to answer, and from what I know of the CPS they’ll need a hell of a lot more proof against you than the Spanish had, even before the Met team got involved.’
I stared at him and at the small image of myself. ‘I’m going to need some time to get my head round this,’ I said. ‘There’s so much to consider. I’m not moving out of L’Escala.’
‘Why should you? You’ll have travel and other expenses; you can hire a live-in housekeeper to look after Tom when you’re away. Primavera, I could recruit somebody for you. There are female ex-soldiers out there just now, with Afghan and Iraqi experience, looking for civilian jobs.’
He was so earnest that I laughed. ‘One step at a time, Mark,’ I protested. ‘Let me get home first, and let the police catch whoever set me up. When that’s done I’ll decide all the rest. It’s nice to be immune, I’ll grant you. But I want to be seen to be innocent as well, beyond the shadow of even the most
un
reasonable doubt.’
Forty-four
G
iven my new and entirely unexpected status, I had a moment of wishing that I’d booked into a five-star hotel, but the Hotel Villareal suited me fine for that one night. I did a little more shopping while I was out, a nice loose white top that I reckoned would be cool on the road next day, and a box of those items that I’d found in Gerard’s bathroom cabinet and which I expected to need myself by Friday at the very latest. As I paid the pharmacist’s assistant, I felt a surge of guilt as my first, involuntary, suspicions came back to me. Maybe I’d tell him when I got home, for a laugh, but I was sure we’d have other, serious, things to talk about. During my crisis, my real feelings had been revealed, and maybe his too . . .
What had he said? ‘
It may be that when your troubles are over, our troubles will begin
.’
The white top wasn’t needed next morning. It had poured during the night and Thursday promised to be much cooler than the week had been until then. In fact, it rained again mid-morning when I was close to Tarragona, so hard that I had to come off the road for a while, since the Suzuki’s wiper blades were even less use than its air conditioning, and since the detachable hard-top wasn’t too well sealed.
Thanks to that it was well into the afternoon by the time I reached and passed Girona Airport. I gave some thought to going straight to the school and surprising Tom by picking him up, but I decided that our reunion would be better at home, since one of us was going to cry, and I doubted that it would be him. So instead, I pulled in at a picnic area and called my landline number, in the hope that Mac would be in.
He was, and he must have been carrying the cordless phone, so quickly did he answer. ‘Aw Jesus, lass,’ he exclaimed. ‘Am I glad to hear your voice! Where are you?’
‘I’m on my way home.’
‘Can you?’
‘Yes. I may not be completely in the clear, but I’m safe from arrest.’
‘I’ve been hearing things,’ he said, ‘about the investigation. Tom made me take him to Can Coll last night, and the guy there was saying something about a team from London being flown in. I asked him who made that happen, but he said that he hadn’t a clue. Apart from that there hasn’t been a lot of talk that I’ve heard, although I’m sure there’s been some behind my back.’ He paused. ‘They searched the house, of course; on Friday.’
I’d expected that. ‘Messy?’
‘No, they were tidy; your friend Alex was there and he made sure that everything was put back in its place. Apart from your computer, that is. They took that away; brought it back this morning though. I was surprised by that; I thought they’d keep it longer. The man Gomez was going to take Tom’s computer too, but Gerard asked to see the court order that would let him, and he backed off.’ He chuckled. ‘He’s a tough guy, your priest; if it came to the bit, he doesn’t look like he’d take any prisoners. I’m pleased that he’s on your side. I take it he helped you get away?’
‘Not over the phone, Mac,’ I warned, ‘not even now.’
‘No, maybe not,’ he conceded, ‘but it’s obvious that’s what Gomez thinks. There was real antagonism between them; he didn’t come right out and accuse him, but it was written all over his face.’
‘It doesn’t matter what Gomez thinks. He’s back in Girona counting paperclips.’
‘Is he indeed? Is that connected with the guys from London arriving?’
‘Yup.’
‘And you know about it?’ I could hear him pondering. ‘Has your brother-in-law been leaning on people?’
‘Hopefully, he still doesn’t have a clue about it. Anyway he’s in America; there isn’t anyone he could lean on even if he wanted to. No, there’s somebody else who believes in me and reckoned that he owed me a favour.’
‘If he can do that for you,’ he growled, ‘keep him in mind the next time I need one. When will you be back?’
‘Half an hour; open the garage door for me and make sure there’s a space clear.’
‘You on wheels?’ He sounded surprised.
‘Yes, and I want to keep them out of sight; I don’t want anyone asking how I came by them.’
I ended the call and got back on the road. As I passed over Viladamat and approached the St Martí junction, my last fear was that the Mossos might be waiting here as they do from time to time as a matter of routine, but it was clear, as was the big roundabout outside the village. I took the short route up to the garage. Mac had opened the door as I asked; I swung in carefully, just in case there was something in my way.
I’d barely applied the handbrake before the door started to close, and before Tom stepped out from behind the Jeep. I jumped out of the Suzuki and he jumped at me; I hugged him for about a minute, until he got too heavy for me to hold up any longer, and I had to set him back on his feet. I’d been right about the tears too.
‘Mission accomplished,’ I told him, wiping them away. ‘No more unexplained absences, I promise.’
‘It’s all right, Mum,’ he said. ‘I’ve had fun with Grandpa Blackstone.’ I wasn’t quite sure how to take that until he looked up at me, smiled, and added, ‘But Charlie and I are both glad you’re back.’ He looked back over his shoulder, to something that leaned against the wall, something that hadn’t been there when I’d left. ‘Do you like my new bike?’
I surely did. It was nearly as big as mine, with thick, rugged tyres, strong off-road suspension, and what looked like around twenty gears. The saddle was set right down, so there was plenty of room for growth. ‘I hope you said a proper thank you,’ I told him.
‘You mean in English?’ he asked, ingenuously.
‘In every one of your four languages.’
I let him lead the way upstairs to the kitchen, where Mac was waiting. It was his turn to hug me. He had a Coronita in each hand, and he gave one to me. ‘I thought you might appreciate this,’ he said.
‘And the one after it,’ I admitted, killing half of it in a single slug. ‘But first . . .’ I headed for the stairs and for my bedroom. As soon as I had closed the door behind me I stripped off my clothes and stepped under the shower. I left it cool, short of lukewarm even, and stayed in there for a good ten minutes, shampooing my hair three or four times in the hope of at least toning down the chestnut. Neither Tom nor Mac had mentioned my new colour, but I’d had as much of it as I wanted. I knew I couldn’t wash it out, but I promised myself that as soon as I could I’d find something as close to my natural shade as I could, repair the damage and then let it grow out.

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