Blood Red (32 page)
He was as stunned as I was. ‘He set you up?’ he repeated. ‘He did that to you?’
‘I don’t think he set out that way, but when he heard that I was implicated, he saw a way to get himself clear and to get us what we both wanted, each other. I’m in no doubt that if I had been caught he’d have come forward and confessed.’
‘You reckon?’ he growled. ‘You’re too good to people, Primavera, that’s your problem. You trust too much.’
‘I haven’t always. This time I really thought I could. Luck of the devil, eh. Oh Mac, why do I always fuck up? I get close to someone then I do something daft, or he dies, or goes to the bad. I’m a fucking carrier of disaster; they should lock me up like one of those typhoid women and chuck away the key.’
‘Aye, and who’d look after your boy then? Don’t beat yourself up over the imperfections of others. You were far more loyal to my son than he ever was to you, and as for this fellow, seems to me you’re lucky you didn’t get any closer to him.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Look, would you like me to come back out there, me and Mary? We could look after the wee man while you get stuck into this new job of yours.’
‘Thanks, Mac, but I’m not even sure I’ll go ahead with that.’
‘Hey,’ he exclaimed, ‘you’ll get me angry in a minute. There’s every reason why you should. This guy’s kicked you right in the self-esteem. You’ve been given this opportunity because people think you’re worth it. If you walk away from it, you’ll be letting them down, Tom down, me down, yourself . . . Ach shit, Primavera, you’re going ahead as planned, you’re going to let Father Gerard take his coffee and you’re going to wash him out of your hair along with that bloody dye. So, do you want us to come out?’
I considered his offer; then I turned it down. ‘It’s good of you, but if I’m going to do what you say, I’d best begin by standing on my own two feet.’
‘That’s more like it. Keep in touch, though.’
‘I promise.’
I was ready for the road; Mac had put some backbone into me. I found my way out of Girona and took the quickest way home, via the short hop up the autopista from junction six to five. I got home just as Tom was getting to the fretting stage, fed up with the dogs and worrying about me. I bought a case of Riogenc from Ben, partly as a thank you and partly because I was running low on pink wine, and took Tom and Charlie home.
The dog had barely settled into his kennel before Tom planted himself in front of me, looked me square in the eye, and asked, solemnly, ‘Mum, what’s wrong with Gerard?’ He didn’t add, ‘And don’t fob me off with some crap story about him going away to another parish.’ He let his expression do that for him.
‘He’s with the police, son,’ I replied. ‘He’s in trouble.’
‘I heard someone saying he’s killed people.’
‘That’s what the police say too.’
He looked at me scornfully, dry eyed. ‘Gerard wouldn’t do that. You don’t believe them, do you?’
‘He’s admitted it, Tom. He’s confessed to it; I heard him say so, on a recording.’
‘But has he told you that he did it? Has he told YOU?’ He shouted the last word.
‘No, he wouldn’t see me.’
‘He wouldn’t see you because he knew he couldn’t tell you a lie.’
He’s a tough little monkey, but he was getting close to tears. I drew him to me, and pressed his face into my chest. ‘Tom, my love, you don’t tell a lie that’s going to put you in prison for thirty years. I’m sorry.’
‘No!’ he shouted, then twisted out of my grasp and ran into the house. I didn’t follow him; since he was about three he hasn’t liked anyone seeing him cry, not even me. I’m not keen on it myself, so I went indoors too.
After a while, I changed out of my black dress, into denim shorts and a red shirt. I hung the dress up, tossed my new shawl into the box where I keep odds and ends like that, and went down to what I was going to have to think of as my office. I had it to myself, so I booted up my computer and Skyped Mark Kravitz.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, immediately. Christ, did I look that bad? A glance at my box onscreen showed me that I did.
I told him the story. ‘Jesus, Primavera,’ he murmured into his mike, ‘what a length to go to. Wouldn’t you have shagged him if he’d just asked?’
‘Not on the side,’ I replied, ‘not while he was still a priest.’
‘The police case is rock solid, is it?’
‘Rock solid and with a signed confession. I spoke to a cop who knew him back in Granada; this guy’s supposed to be the hardest man in town, but he didn’t think so himself, when the Hernanz brothers were lads. Gerard was, plus he has a history of violence when his women are insulted, or abused.’
‘Indeed?’ He looked at me. ‘So what are you going to do now?’
‘Look after my boy; he’s broken-hearted. Then . . .’ As I looked at him, I had an idea. ‘I’ve been told to get on with my life, so next week I’m coming to London to meet a man at the FCO. How do you fancy having an office junior for a couple of days; nearly nine, and big for his age?’
‘That would be great. Why don’t you both stay here?’
‘No, Mark, I wouldn’t impose that much. We’ll get a hotel; the FCO are paying for it, and I can’t remember the last time I was on expenses.’
Tom came into the room just as we finished our conversation. I wondered if he’d been listening, and immediately felt ashamed of myself; he doesn’t have a sneaky bone in his body. ‘We’re going to London,’ I told him. Normally a piece of news like that would have set him hollering, but all he did was shrug.
‘Do I have to?’ he asked.
‘Afraid so, buddy. I have to go, and I’d like your company.’
‘Okay then.’ He looked at me as he switched on his computer. ‘Can I visit Gerard before then?’
‘He’s in custody, Tom. You wouldn’t like it.’
‘Maybe not, but I’d like to see him. Please, Mum.’
‘It’s not my decision, son. The police would have to agree, and Gerard would have to agree himself. But if it’s what you want, I’ll ask the commissioner, I promise. It probably won’t be before Monday, though.’
‘Can I go to the church tomorrow? I suppose Father Olivares will be saying Mass; I’ve helped him before when Gerard’s been away.’
‘Of course you can. I’m sure he’ll welcome your assistance too.’
I was reading through the diplomatic service house rules when the phone rang. I saw Alex Guinart’s home number displayed.
‘How are you doing?’ he asked. ‘Commissioner Valdes called me after you’d gone. He’s concerned about you. He might sound like an asshole from time to time, but he’s actually not such a bad guy. He’s been going out of his way not to upset Hector.’
‘How do you think I’m doing? I’m gutted.’
‘How’s Tom?’
‘In denial; that’s as good a description as any.’
‘Do the two of you have any plans for tonight?’
‘Huh,’ I grunted. ‘Put it this way. We’re not going dancing.’
‘In that case, come and eat with Gloria and Marte and me. We’re going up to St Martí this evening. Since it’s Saturday, we thought we’d try the other pizzeria, about eight thirty.’
I came close to turning him down, for I knew I’d be lousy company. Then I thought of Tom; I had to do something to break his mood. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll ask them to keep us a table.’
‘The other pizzeria’ is actually the second business of Meson del Conde; it opens during the summer months, when you could put out as many tables as the village can hold and they’d all be occupied. (I suspect the café owners would do that, but their kitchens could never keep up.) I took care of it there and then, or rather I delegated the task, asking Tom to run across and make the booking.
Suddenly, I was tired. The events of the day caught up with me; I told Tom, yes, he could watch cricket on television . . . if it’s sport he’ll watch it . . . then went upstairs to my private terrace off my bedroom, stripped off, and stretched out on my lounger. I’d probably have slept through till next morning if Tom hadn’t wakened me. I dreamed, of course; about Granada, about Gerard . . . Or was it Santi? I can’t be sure now . . . about Tom, on a rock, shouting, ‘Mum.’
His voice drifted from the dream into my consciousness. ‘Mum,’ he called from the doorway, for what was probably the third or fourth time. A couple of years ago, he’d just have prodded me awake, but he’s beginning to understand the concept of privacy, and so he feels slightly awkward about seeing his mother naked. ‘Wake up, it’s eight o’clock and the table’s . . .’
I sat up and nodded, bleary eyed. ‘Thanks, Tom. I’ll shower and come down. You get yourself ready.’
He looked at me askance; he does askance well. ‘I am ready,’ he said. He was too; he’d changed into cargo pants and an Aussie T-shirt that Uncle Miles had given him, with Shane Warne’s face, larger than life, on the front . . . or is Shane’s head really that big?
I thought about glamming up, but decided against it for two reasons: one, I suspected that Gloria wouldn’t, and two, I couldn’t be arsed. So I washed, blew my hair dry, making a mental memo to buy a tint to kill the chestnut, and put on the shirt and shorts that I’d picked earlier, with a blast of Chanel No. 5 as my one concession to femininity.
We got to the table five minutes early; Alex and Gloria arrived ten minutes late. No Marte, though; the wee soul was cutting back teeth, and had been fractious, so they’d left her with Gloria’s mum.
‘Did Valdes play you the tape?’ Alex asked, quietly, once we were settled in.
‘Enough of it. Have you heard it?’
‘I was in the room, Primavera. Valdes wanted me there, someone you would trust, so that there could be no doubt about everything being above board. I was there when he interviewed the big ugly Andalusian as well. The Gerard he described was one I’ve never met, but that guy Lavorante is not the sort to talk himself down, so when he said that he’d never have dreamed of crossing him, I believed him.’
‘Me too. Santi told me as much.’
‘Santi? Who the hell’s Santi?’
‘Gerard’s brother.’
‘Ah. The guy didn’t mention his name. You’ve met him?’
‘That’s where I was, Alex, it’s where I ran to; Gerard’s house in Granada. He’d arranged for Santi to be there to look after me.’
‘Should you tell me this, Primavera?’ he asked, frowning.
‘It doesn’t make any difference now. Valdes knows anyway; he may not be certain where I went, but he knows that Gerard helped me get away, and if he was interested in finding out where he sent me, it wouldn’t take him long. But it’s not relevant.’
‘I don’t suppose it . . .’ He stopped in mid-sentence as a waiter arrived to take our food orders. Alex and I hadn’t even looked at the menu, so we let the other two go first. I realised that I was hungry; I’d done a big salad for Tom and Ben before I’d left for the funeral, but with everything that had happened afterwards, I’d forgotten to eat lunch myself. I chose a simple pasta starter, then a Four Seasons pizza, with still and fizzy water for the table, a bottle of the ever-reliable Vina Sol, and fresh orange juice for junior. He was beginning to look a bit brighter, but he still wasn’t his usual self.
None of us were, for that matter. Conversations at the tourist tables buzzed on oblivious, but the thing . . . I couldn’t think of another word to describe it . . . that had happened hung over ours like our own personal cloud.
‘You know,’ Alex continued, still speaking quietly, so that Tom, who was locked on to his hand-held PlayStation, couldn’t overhear, ‘most of the time I love my job. What I do, I right wrongs; I investigate crimes and I bring the people who commit them to account. That gives me satisfaction, big time; I feel that I’ve given something back to the community that raised me, and it pleases me. But every so often I get involved in something and I hate myself for it. Like this business. There are no winners, only losers. Two people we knew are dead. Okay, Planas wasn’t a nice man, and Dolores was known around town as “The mouth of L’Escala”, but they had a right to life. And who killed them? One of the most popular men in town, a friend of many of us, and now we’ve lost him too. Sitting in that office today, listening to him confess to everything that Valdes put to him, watching him put his signature on it . . . Primavera, that was one of the saddest moments of my life.’
‘And mine.’
‘I feel lousy about it, because I don’t remember ever misjudging anyone so much. I should have been angry with him when they took him away to the cells, but I found that I could only be angry with myself, for being duped.’
‘Are you sure?’ I asked. ‘Could it be that you were angry with yourself because you’re part of the machine that caused his downfall?’
He shook his head. ‘No, because we didn’t; he brought it on himself. This isn’t Jesus Christ we’re dealing with here. This is a man from Andalusia with a record of extreme violence in his youth, who managed to run away from what he is by entering the church, but who couldn’t keep his other side at bay forever. He fooled us all.’
‘So he was a bad priest?’
‘No, and that’s the damnable thing. He was a great priest; he and Olivares, they’re the best team we’ve ever had in this town, in my lifetime. I can’t imagine how the old man’s taking it.’
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