Blood Red (29 page)

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Authors: Quintin Jardine

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Scotland

BOOK: Blood Red
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‘I’m your daughter’s fairy godmother, that’s all. So what’s your friend been saying?’
‘They’ve identified a common DNA pattern from each of the three locations; only one, but the new prosecutor reckons it’s grounds for action. They’re ready to make an arrest, so it looks as if pretty soon you’re going to know who it is that’s had it in for you. As for me, I have no idea. That’s as far as my pal would go; he said that it was more than his career was worth to tell me anything else.’
‘I can wait,’ I said, unashamedly vindictive, ‘but when I find out I’m going to savour the moment. This character would have seen me go down for the rest of my life; I hope he doesn’t forget that as he contemplates his.’
Forty-five
I
took Tom to school next morning; it was the end of term and he was hyper, so I judged it best not to let him take his new bike, in case he got carried away and started doing tricks on it. He was curious about the Suzuki in the garage; I told him the simple truth, that I’d been using it while I was away, and that seemed to satisfy him.
Since it was right next door I went to the gym after I’d dropped him off, and put myself through a fairly strenuous workout, partly to sweat off the extra kilo that I’d acquired with all that eating in Santi’s Granada haunts. I thought of him as I ran; chances were he was halfway across the Atlantic, bound for Los Angeles in his flying bus.
I thought of his brother too: I’d heard nothing from him and had called him again before I’d left the house, with no more success than the day before. I thought of what had been said at Shirley’s; we’d both been very emotional, but I knew that I’d stepped across the invisible barrier that I’d put between us. I thought of what I’d said on the phone in Granada, about the last resort, and of how he’d reacted. The more I thought about it, the more I came to realise that was why his mobile was switched off. He knew that our old relationship had been compromised, at the very least, and that next time we spoke I was going to have some very personal questions to put to him . . . all the more personal now that I knew about Irena. There was a relationship with a woman in his past. Had he been put off for life by its horrible conclusion, or did he feel at least some of what I felt for him? I had to hear his answer, and strangely, I was scared by the prospect . . . whatever he might say. If he turned me down . . . it would be the end even of what we’d had. If he said, ‘Yes, I do love you and want you’ . . . Jesus, that might be even tougher to handle. He might insist that we leave St Martí. Would I do that for him? I’d have to; my sacrifice would have to match his.
My musing came to an end as my treadmill programme ran out. I did some stretching exercises to warm down, then changed and headed back to the village. I had things to do. There was Mac for a start; he’d stayed on for days longer than he’d planned, but the previous evening I’d managed to book him on to a flight from Girona to Stansted that would link up with another to Edinburgh and get him home in time for dinner. I had to have him there for eleven fifteen, then be back to collect Tom at lunchtime.
And then there was my new, unlooked-for, job. I’d gone to sleep asking myself whether I wanted it, and woken up realising that I did. I fancied the challenge, I needed to be stimulated intellectually and I liked the thought of what it involved, being an informal sub-ambassador for Scotland in Spain. Hell, I thought, if I’d seen it advertised I probably would have applied for it. Could I manage that and a new situation with Gerard at the same time? Sure I could; maybe I wouldn’t have to recruit one of Mark’s soldier girl housekeepers.
Mental note: never use the word ‘nanny’ to Tom
.
For all the upheaval and unexpected responsibility, Mac looked to have enjoyed his break. He was the colour of well-oiled teak, and looked rested . . . perhaps because he hadn’t played all the golf that he’d anticipated. I hoped that Mary would approve of the state in which he was being returned. I saw him off to the departures gate, after making him promise that they’d both come back for the wine fair in September.
I’d been so busy that I was on my way back to L’Escala before I got round to thinking about what Alex Guinart had said the night before about the likelihood of an arrest. I was intrigued to know who it would be, but from everything I’d heard of Planas, I guessed it was likely to be someone I’d never heard of, someone with a grudge big enough to kill over, ruthless enough to take care of Dolores when she got in the way, and smart enough to set me up to take the rap after he’d picked up some inside dope from the police. This was Catalunya, after all; much as I love it, the place is full of people who meet those requirements, even if they are heavily outnumbered by the good. No point in speculating, though, I told myself, as I headed back to the school.
It was out for the summer, as Alice Cooper has been insisting since I was about four years old, a half-day, and so I took my son for lunch to celebrate. We took the Jeep home, picked up Charlie and walked along to the Hostal Ampurias, a white-painted hotel near the Greco-Roman ruins, sitting almost on top of a beautiful little bay. When Tom cycles to school he goes past it. He asked for a Catalan salad to start . . . he likes his meat, and that’s what it is . . . while I settled for wild green asparagus. (It grows all over L’Escala, but only the old-timers know where to find it, and it’s hard to spot.) As we ate I told him that I had a job, one that might take me out of town for a couple of days at a time.
‘Can I come?’ he asked.
‘When you’re not at school, if it’s convenient, and I don’t think you’d be bored. Other times, there’ll be somebody to look after you.’
‘Can Gerard look after me?’
‘Gerard has his own job.’
Tom frowned. ‘Somebody at school said he’d left.’
I felt a tremor in my chest. ‘What?’ I gasped.
‘One of the girls said her mother saw him leaving, and that he isn’t going to be our priest any more.’
I snatched my phone from my bag and called Gerard’s mobile again; again that purring voicemail message, ‘At this moment . . .’ I found Alex’s number and pressed the green key.
‘Primavera,’ he said, quietly, before I had a chance to speak, knowing my number off by heart and recognising it. ‘I’m in the office. It’s very busy and very noisy, so I can’t really speak. However, I can guess what you’re calling about and the answer’s “yes”. I’m sorry, but it’s true.’
‘That might be the answer, Alex,’ I hissed, leaning away from Tom so that he couldn’t hear me, ‘but what’s the fucking question?’
‘You don’t know. God, the rumour is all over town. The man they’ve arrested, for both murders. It’s Father Gerard.’
Forty-six
I
couldn’t tell Tom, of course. Equally I couldn’t keep my panic from showing on my face.
‘What’s wrong, Mum?’ he asked.
I pulled myself together. ‘Nothing.’
‘There is,’ he insisted, stubbornly, ‘you look as if you’ve had a fright.’
‘It’s nothing,’ I repeated, with a hint of a warning not to push it in my voice. ‘Something’s happened that I didn’t expect, that’s all. Nothing to do with you, young man, so mind your own.’
‘Yes, Mum.’ He sighed as kids do when they want you to know they see through you but they’re indulging you anyway. Happily his spaghetti bolognaise arrived just at that moment, to distract him. He’s less messy when he eats it than he used to be, but he still has to concentrate to make sure he doesn’t wind up wearing some of it. Me? I had a piece of sole, and nothing else. That extra kilo, remember.
When we got back home he asked if I’d go to the beach with him. It was a little windy, but I took a sun lounger and sat under a mushroom-shaped parasol, watching him in the water, but thinking at the same time. Finally, because I could come up with nothing else to do, I rang the residence again. This time Father Olivares answered in person. I wondered whether he’d want to speak to me, but he actually seemed pleased that I’d called. The old chap was as distressed as I was, but he didn’t have to hide the fact from anyone.
‘This is madness,’ I said to him. ‘Do you know what’s possessed them?’
‘Or is it him who’s possessed?’ he countered. ‘They said when they came to arrest him that they have clear evidence.’
‘You were there when he was taken away?’
‘Yes. It was people I didn’t know. They came to our house in uniform and with guns, and asked for him. They said that they had very clear evidence that linked him with both murders. At first, he seemed amused. He laughed at them and told them that they were making it up, but they said that they could prove with science that he had been at José-Luis’s house, at the place where Dolores Fumado was found, and in her car. They could prove it, categorically, they insisted. They said that he would be charged with murder and with attempting to implicate you, by putting the poor woman’s body in your house, to be found.’
‘How did he react to that?’
‘He said to them, “You can actually prove that?” and they replied, “Absolutely.” With that his attitude changed. “Then do so,” he said, “for I’ll be saying nothing.” So they took him away, to Girona, in a closed van. But before he left, he did say one more thing, to me, very quietly. He asked me to say to you, Primavera, that he was sorry, but he could do nothing else. He admitted it, my dear. I am so sorry. I know what you have come to feel for him, and I’d begun to suspect that he had the same regard for you. But no, it seems that he’s betrayed us all.’
I don’t think I’ve ever heard such despair as that which sounded in the old man’s voice. For a moment, I found myself accepting what he was saying . . . until I told him, ‘No! I will not believe that, never. I don’t care what they say, there is another explanation. A week ago, those people, or others like them, claimed to have proof that I committed these crimes. Gerard didn’t believe it then, as I don’t believe it now. I’m going to get him out of this.’
‘But if their evidence is as strong as they say . . .’
‘Let’s see what a lawyer thinks of it. Will the church appoint someone to act for him?’
‘My dear, the church is not used to having its priests accused of murder. There isn’t a precedent for this. It will need to be considered.’
I could hear the mills of God grinding, exceedingly slowly. ‘We don’t have time for that. Father, you’ve been here for a long time. Who’s the best advocate in this area?’
‘From what I’ve heard, that would be Josep Villamas. He has an office in Figueras, and he’s very well known in the courts. He lives in L’Escala; he’s a member of my congregation.’
‘Can you give me a number for him? I’d look it up myself, but I’m on the beach with my son.’
‘I think so. Give me a moment.’ I waited, listening to a rustling of paper in the background. ‘Yes,’ he said finally, then gave me two numbers, one local, the other, by its prefix, the office in Figueras. I keyed both into the memory of my phone. ‘Thanks, Father. I’m going to call him right now and instruct him.’
‘He’ll be expensive,’ the old man warned. ‘We priests are poor men, and there’s no guarantee that the bishop will agree to meet the cost, whatever the temptation to which Gerard may have succumbed.’
‘Cost isn’t an issue,’ I told him. ‘When I have something positive to tell you, I’ll let you know. You’ll be at home, yes.’
‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘Apart from this evening, and tomorrow, of course.’
‘What happens then?’
‘Dolores Fumado’s funeral is tomorrow morning. It’s at eleven.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘The body is being released to Justine and Elena this morning; it will be received into the church this evening.’
‘Then let’s hope we can put this nonsense to bed in time for Gerard to assist you at the requiem Mass.’
‘You are one of life’s optimists, my dear.’
‘I wasn’t a week ago; that’s something else I owe to him.’
He wished me good luck, but he still sounded low.
Tom wanted me to come into the water with him, but I told him I wasn’t swimming that day. He knows that sometimes I don’t, and he never asks why. Instead I called the Figueras number. A woman answered, in Catalan. I gave her my name and asked if I could speak to her boss. I expected her to ask me what I wanted, but she put me straight through.
I got down to business. No time for pleasantries; with lawyers the clock is always ticking. ‘Senor Villamas, I want to instruct you to undertake the defence of my friend Gerard Hernanz. He was arrested early this morning, and is being charged with two murders.’
‘And with fabricating evidence against you, Senora Blackstone,’ the advocate added, in a deep rolling voice; he sounded as Morgan Freeman would if he spoke Catalan. (Maybe old Morgan does: I don’t know.)
‘So you’ve heard what’s happened?’
‘Yes, I was told a few hours ago. When I learned of it I went straight to Girona, and offered my services to Father Hernanz. I know the man. He’s heard my confession, often. I like him very much, and I could not credit what I’d been told. He refused to see me; a policeman came to tell me that he’d said he didn’t want a lawyer, and that if one was appointed by the court, he’d refuse to cooperate with him. To be frank, I didn’t believe the officer, and I told him as much. I threatened to go straight to the court to demand access. He went away and returned a few minutes later with a handwritten note from Father Hernanz confirming what he had said the first time. And more; the message said that if I was asked to act for someone else in this matter . . . I suspect that he meant you . . . it would serve no purpose. He said that if the police have evidence against him, they can present it. He’ll let God defend him, and judge him.’

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